The House in the Steeple

By Jane Hollingsworth

An embittered young widow and her psychic foster child face a triple menace when the events of eighty years ago spring to life. Or is it her dead husband?

After five years in a nightmare of a marriage, Bedie Breckenridge wanted only two things - a child to love and the absence of men. Eleven year old June, psychic and secretive, wouldn't give two cents for the finest foster mother on earth. But she did love old houses, this one in particular, and was willing to do anything in order to call it home. Even keep the secret that a

vicious entitiy inhabited her room.

When Bedie finds that June's murderous brother is stalking the child, she turns to parole officer Tom Lillard for help. While Bedie and Tom struggle to keep the child safe, June is fighting an entity who is as determined as she. Is the creature also responsible for the very different assaults on Bedie? To defeat it, Bedie and June will risk everything - even the possibility of love!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590880005

Book preview

Prologue

The sound of horses’ hooves on the street below aroused no interest in the man who stood in the darkest corner of the room. He knew the buggy would be Jim Shelburne’s, coming home after some late night house call. The man knew all the comings and goings on his street. Outside his home, he kept a careful finger on the pulse of his world. Inside his home, his power was absolute.

The night was an unusually hot one for Roxford in May. The heavy winter draperies had been removed from the windows that morning, and the freshly laundered and starched lace curtains, still smelling of soap and sunshine, lifted in the breeze from the open windows. The moonlight shining through them made shifting patterns on the face of the sleeping child in the small bed. She lay on her side, fair hair hiding her face, arms tucked under the linen sheet.

The man’s gaze moved to the bureau where frothy under things were laid out. His lips thinned as he noted the quantity of lace that foamed at the hem of the chemise, new garments purchased in recognition of her twelfth birthday on the morrow. A party dress was laid carefully over the back of the slipper chair beside the bed, its rose color bleached to gray by the moonlight. Matching slippers with rosebuds stitched to their satin insteps lay neatly on the floor beside the chair.

Without warning, as though in response to some urgent dream, the child turned onto her back, throwing an arm from beneath the sheet, the palm curled up. The watching man winced, his face a picture of distaste. He took a half step backward, his gaze still intent on the small form on the bed. A light-colored cat, disturbed by the movement, rose from the broad windowsill behind the bed. It yawned hugely, then stretched out its front legs, the back curving down in an exaggerated bow when it caught sight of the man in the corner. The animal uttered a strangled half-cry, and twisted its body in an ungainly motion, the grace of its species giving way to a deeper instinct as it scuttled past the man, and slid through the doorway.

As the animal left, the man moved noiselessly forward to the foot of the bed. The muscles of his face twitched in disgust. His shoulders dropped, his chest curved inward as if bracing himself against some unbearable pain, which must be endured nevertheless for a while longer. His gaze sharpened and his hands curled into fists, clenching and unclenching in the darkness. His hatred was a palpable thing in the room.

As if sensing it, the child turned restlessly, exposing a small pale foot. His hand moving as if guided by some outside force, the man reached down and stroked the side of it gently, with a feather-light touch, for only a moment. Then he bit down sharply on his back teeth, and glided backwards into the shadows, watching.

One

The Balloon Girl

The Roxford Juvenile and Domestic Relations District Court, the Honorable Frederick Hodges presiding, met in Courtroom Four to discuss a child.

Of the five people present, only the bailiff, who had recently finished a four year army enlistment and signed on with the state, did not already know every detail about this child’s last six years. The clerk looked alternately bored and nervous, glancing at Judge Hodges out of the corner of her eye apprehensively as she called out the name of the case.

The social work student, on her first internship, had never been to court before. She edged closer to her supervisor, Edwina Turner, a stout black woman whose pleasant face looked mulish just now. Lips tightened, the supervisor glared at the judge. He was a wiry black man whose gray temples enhanced the dignity of his black robes.

"What went wrong this time, Mrs. Turner?" the judge asked, his voice tinged with irritation. Edwina Turner and Frederick Hodges had been friends for twenty-five years. They both sang in the choir at the Zion African Methodist Episcopal church. Mr. Turner and Judge Hodges played golf every second and fourth Saturday, and Susan Hodges and Edwina were Secretary and Treasurer, respectively, of the Roxford chapter of the League of Women Voters.

There was a long-standing tacit agreement for the judge and the social worker to keep their personal and professional lives separate; they never brought up business when the two couples got together. In court, they never used one another’s first names.

Now, Edwina looked back at him stone faced and prepared to do battle. She had never known the reason for this particular war or the reason for the Judge’s role in it, but eighteen years in the Department of Social Services had honed her assertiveness skills to knife-point.

Your Honor, Mr. and Mrs. Forsythe, the foster parents, brought June to our lobby, handed her over along with two Hefti-Sacs full of her belongings, and resigned from the foster parent program on the spot.

She paused and shot him an accusing look. I might add that they were four year veterans of the program and have had five different foster care children. They gave no reason, except to say that June had butchered her hair and that of their own two children. Other than that little detail, they refused to talk to me. She rolled the papers into her hand into a cylinder and pointed it at the judge. "I can only assume that the child pulled one of her usual hurricane tantrums. If you’ll remember, Your Honor, June caused more than seven thousand dollars worth of damage to the Parker’s living room and kitchen before they threw in the towel."

The judge’s thin body tensed under his black robes as he leaned forward to speak, but Edwina went on. In the placement before that one, the Morellis, who held out longer than anyone...

That’s enough, Mrs. Turner, the judge snapped. Edwina, who knew that his temper was as uncertain as his heart was big, pressed her lips tightly together again. Judge Hodges rattled his papers and glanced down at her petition. Now you want to place Pearlie June with a single woman who has no previous experience with children...

With all due respect, Your Honor, that is not accurate. She’s a children’s librarian, Edwina said sharply. Watching the judge’s face darken, the social work student at her side stirred uneasily.

This court will not tolerate interruptions, he barked. You are out of order, Mrs. Turner.

The courtroom was silent. The bailiff rocked forward on the balls of his feet in an attempt to look menacing. Judge Hodges’ clerk bit her lip as her gaze swung between the two set faces. Edwina said nothing, but it was clear to everyone that she wasn’t through yet.

He went on as if nothing had occurred. This woman, this Bedie Breckenridge.... He looked down at the petition again. "Ms. Breckenridge has no experience rearing children. He paused to glare at his friend. Further, she lives in the Steeple district. That’s not a fun place for an 11 year-old child. Nobody but old folks who have been living in the area all their life or young well-off professionals who want to renovate an old home and who can afford a nanny to watch their children while they do it. Whom do you expect the girl to play with?"

First of all, Judge, it’s pronounced Beadie, not Betty. Secondly, as to playmates, June has always been a solitary child...

Why? Is it because she’s biracial?

I don’t think so. She’s lived with black families, white families, and one Filipino family. June’s had plenty of complaints, but racism has never been one of them. And I agree that it isn’t healthy for a child to be so solitary. She gave him a steady look, then went on. However, you were clear that you didn’t want her in the placement I suggested where she could learn the value of interacting with others.

Yes, I remember your suggestion. A group home!

She plowed on past the interruption. "And finally, I don’t want to place her in a single parent home. This child can exhaust a dozen adults within minutes. But you know as well as I do, Your Honor, that we never have enough foster homes. The Roxford Department of Social Services has one hundred forty-eight children in foster care. And of those one hundred forty-eight, she paused for emphasis, Pearlie June’s the only case that this court requires the Department to petition for a routine change of placement."

She paused, knowing she was about to go too far. Her blood was boiling. God knew that June was her most difficult child; dealing with the girl’s frequent and gifted impersonations of Godzilla required more of Edwina’s time than the other two dozen foster children in her case load combined. But the judge’s insistence on micro managing this case made finding new placements a lot harder than it had to be. She’d like to bop him one with his own gavel. The unreasonable old fart! Mentally shrugging, she plunged on. Apparently we are trustworthy with the other one hundred forty-seven.

To the bailiff, the judge looked like he was choking. One more word from you and I’ll have you removed from this case permanently! And before you bother saying it, I am not interested in hearing again...ever...your suggestion for placing this girl in residential psychiatric care, either. She needs a normal, loving home. What is this woman like? I assume you have met her personally.

Certainly. She seems very nice and is enthusiastic about having June.

She would not have dared to add her other perceptions about the woman, even if she had known how to put them into words. How did you describe that hunted quality, that subtle impression that the woman was looking over her own shoulder all the time? It was a quality Edwina had seen only in women being stalked, women who feared for their lives. Heaven knew, there were all too many of them in the system. But Bedie Breckenridge was a widow. And although she was a very attractive one, she had sworn, and Edwina believed her, that she had been alone since her husband’s death.

Judge Hodges looked suspiciously at her, but when she said nothing else, he merely grunted. Your petition for the placement with Ms. Breckenridge is granted. Fortunately, school ends this week, so the child won’t be disrupted in that area also, but I want you back in this court in thirty days to update me on her progress.

He ignored her gasp, turning over the pages of an oversized book. Today is May twenty-seventh. He turned to the clerk. Place this case on the docket for nine AM on June thirtieth.

A thirty-day review was unheard of, even the student knew that. She tensed her shoulders as Mrs. Turner spoke again. Your Honor, you haven’t addressed the rest of the petition. Now that June’s brother is out of prison, the Department is asking for a no-contact order between June and her brother, Tyronious Eugene Milhouse.

The Judge scratched his chin thoughtfully. He was as fond of Edwina Turner as any woman he knew outside of his wife, Susan. He knew she was bewildered and furious with him, but he couldn’t explain to her.

As you know, Judge, Mr. Milhouse was convicted of second degree murder four years ago. We certainly don’t consider him a safe or desirable person to visit his sister, yet with the exception of these last four years in prison, he has consistently tried to do so. She shot him a meaningful look. And under the circumstances, I can imagine no one more likely to intimidate a brand new foster mother.

Judge Hodges waved his hand in front of his face in irritation, as if her words were second hand smoke. Pearlie June is in the custody of the state, and you, Mrs. Turner, are its representative. If you choose not to allow Mr. Milhouse to see his sister, you are within your rights. However, he lowered his voice, and spoke gently, your petition for a formal no-contact order is denied.

June Fairfield, sitting in one of the molded plastic chairs in the waiting area of the new courthouse, averted her eyes from the sunshine that poured relentlessly through the modern floor-to-ceiling windows. Squinting her eyes and wrinkling her forehead in the glare, she looked like an angry little old woman. Her temper was as short and ragged as her hair today. All this cheery sunshine clashed sharply with her mood. It made her feel edgy and itchy all over.

This was June’s third time in the new building and she hated it. Ever since she could remember, she had loved old buildings. June much preferred the old courthouse with its dark corridors, old-fashioned lighting fixtures and walls of rectangular raised paneling. The furniture there had been dark heavy wood, too, and gave off an odor on wet days and sunny, an odor that comforted her with nuances of permanence and slower, more solid times from years before she was born. The energy in the old building had always helped ground her.

Despite the fact that coming to court almost always meant something unpleasant was going to happen, the old building had been June’s anchor, a constant in her life. Like a hospital to a chronically ill child, it was a place that was painful, but familiar and oddly comforting. At least at the courthouse, the world was focusing on June for a change.

She was a child to whom surroundings were very important. The physical ugliness of some of her foster homes had been as hard for her to bear as were the overcrowded bedrooms, babies with runny noses, short-tempered foster parents, and the indifference shown her. The carved woodwork, the solemn height of the fourteen foot ceilings and the dignified atmosphere of the old courthouse calmed her. Missing it didn’t help her mood any. June sat in the sunshine and seethed. She visualized her energies as spiky and fast-moving, jagged cartoon-like lines above her head.

Energies were important to June, although no one else seemed to know what she meant by the word. She rarely tried to explain herself anymore. Rather, she had turned to books and discovered that the proper words for what she felt and saw were psychic and aura. Except, those didn’t exactly fit her either. She didn’t know what it was that was different about her; she just lived with it, as she lived with so many other things she didn’t understand.

In fact, since she had repeatedly told Penny Forsythe that their cocker spaniel, Bosco, had sick energy and watched Penny pull away from her when a routine veterinary checkup disclosed a fast growing cancer a month later, she had kept her mouth shut about energies. Of course, June admitted to herself, that hadn’t been all that had caused Penny to detach and to finally pack her things and take her to DSS. The tantrums had something to do with it.

June smiled when she thought of her last tantrum. It had been a megatantrum. She was proud of her reputation for being difficult. Left to the care of the state at age five when her great-grandmother Hattie had died, June had decided a long time ago that, when it came to relationships, there was generally a winner and a loser. She had no intention of being the underdog. June’s policy was that if someone made her miserable, they had to get a double payback. From her first decapitated Barbie at age five, which had sent its owner, her older foster sister, hysterical into her mother’s arms, June had progressed to cutting up clothes, sheets, bedspreads and upholstery to stuffing peanut butter in VCRs and marshmallow cream into computers and printers. If she couldn’t have a home of her own, she didn’t see why anyone else should. For a few months at age 6, after that horrible thing with her brother Ty, she had piled her foster family’s clothes on the floor and peed on them. Luckily for the foster families, she now considered such behavior beneath her.

The mobile little face wrinkled again as she remembered why she was here this time. June hadn’t liked the Forsythes, but she had loved her school and tolerated her teacher. They were hard to give up. And their home was within walking distance of the public library. She wished she could go back to the Stanleys, whom she had liked and for whom she had behaved reasonably well for an entire year. At the Stanleys’, there hadn’t been any other kids to get into her things. June held her few possessions sacrosanct; her territorial instincts were highly developed after years of homelessness, of losing her possessions with every move, and being forced to continually share against her will. In the Stanley home, she hadn’t had to share possessions, time, attention or resources for a change. But Mr. Stanley had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and they had moved to Florida to be near relatives who could care for him while Mrs. Stanley worked. Still, maybe Miss Edwina would follow her hopeful suggestion and ask the judge to send her there. Florida would be neat.

June felt the floating feeling in her stomach again, as she always did on Court Day. This new building, with its smell of chemicals, vinyl and new carpeting, couldn’t anchor anyone. June felt like a balloon, weightless, with Miss Edwina as her only tether. There hadn’t been any real home for June in six years and she didn’t believe there ever would be. Miss Edwina had been the constant in her life.

At least she could trust the social worker some, if only a little bit. Miss Edwina had never lied to her or whispered around her. But she didn’t seem to like June much, either. As usual, she felt regarded merely as a problem, some stray dog that had to be put someplace. No matter. If Miss Edwina came out of the courtroom and told her she couldn’t go to Florida and live with the Stanleys again, she would be sorry.

June glanced around for something to destroy. The lower windows had mini-blinds. Pulling down blinds and draperies was one of June’s favorite ways of showing displeasure. They were an awful lot of trouble to put back up and, for some reason, it was a chore that adults seem to especially hate. She turned her head and searched. She could tip over that big trash receptacle, too.

The courtroom door opened and June felt the awful floating sensation again. Again and again and again for six years now. No home. She belonged nowhere and to nobody. June thought briefly of Ty and shuddered. He made her more nervous than anyone.

Mrs. Turner came into sight and June knew from the look on her face that it was starting all over. No Stanleys, no Florida. Instead, another house, another foster family, more reassurances that they loved you, that you were just like one of the family. All lies. Never, never understanding. In all these years, no one had ever noticed that she never destroyed anything beautiful.

The mini-blind cord lay coiled in the hateful sunshine on the nearest windowsill. June took one more look at Edwina Turner’s set face and reached for it.

Two

Stigmata

"W hy did you abort the baby?"

Bedie Breckenridge looked unbelievingly at Dr. Parrish. "I can’t believe you asked me that! I told you everything about my travesty of a marriage during my therapy year before last. Do you think living like that was pleasant? Doug’s jealousy, his sick need for control, the marital rape, the isolation, and all the nasty little details that went with those things. Even now, I can’t believe I lived like that. Can’t believe that because he was a cop, no one would listen to me. Her fists clenched. Would you have wanted to have a baby with a creep like that?"

Dr. Parrish had short white hair, sharp hazel eyes, and a dainty nose. Small and plump, with a habit of leaning forward and tilting her head to one side while she listened, she reminded Bedie of some benevolent and alert bird who was always scanning the horizon. Her gaze rested kindly on her client now, but Bedie wasn’t fooled. When necessary, the therapist could be the most ruthless of truth tellers. The kindness never prevented her from pointing out the obvious, which patients frequently didn’t want to see. She did that now.

Bedie, you left therapy in pretty good shape a year and a half ago, although I didn’t think you were quite ready. This week, you made an appointment with me, said that it was an emergency, came into my office and started talking about the abortion. So, let me rephrase my question. Why is the abortion on your mind right now?

Bedie looked around her. She sat in the same chair she had sat in for eighteen months after her husband’s suicide. Same chair, same faded Oriental rug, same rose, blue, and indigo painting on the wall. There was comfort in the familiarity, a comfort she desperately needed right now. The only thing that was different was the time of day. After eighteen months of eleven A.M. appointments, it felt strange to be here so late, watching the large picture windows darken and the streetlights come on. The lights in the room against the dark windows turned them into mirrors. Bedie could see herself reflected there faithfully, from the waist up. The clear-skinned oval face was paler than usual, and the gray eyes were full of misery. Her thick, golden brown hair, tightly braided and pinned into a coronet on the back of her head, reflected the tautness of the slender body. She turned back to the room.

Dr. Parrish watched her, worried. Bedie had always brought a sense of strain with her into the room. She moved with quick, abrupt motions, whether she was walking, sitting down, or gesturing. And she was, if not a chain smoker, close to it. But the level of tension tonight was unusual. She fairly vibrated with it.

It isn’t just the abortion, Bedie said. It’s Doug. He’s still ruining my life...in lots of ways.

For example?

I haven’t had a date or a conversation with a man in the three years since Doug’s suicide. Unless you count, ‘these books are due back in two weeks’.

Why not? Are you still having flashbacks when men stand close to you?

Bedie fished a pack of cigarettes out of her purse, looked at them carefully, then put them back. No. But until Congress passes a law forcing the bad guys to wear black hats and the good guys white ones, I’m afraid to date. Obviously, I can’t tell the difference.

Dr. Parrish said, Doug was a classic batterer, Bedie, and because you now know this pattern, you can, too, tell the difference. You know the red flags. The controllers smother the woman with attention, flowers, gifts, spend all their spare time with her, call her several times a day from work. She feels like a princess because here is all the love she ever dreamed of, all the attention that’s been missing all of her life. Then the isolation and the control tactics begin. We’ve spent hours talking about this. Why—

Bedie cut in on her as if she hadn’t spoken. I’ve always been so independent, even feisty. The whole thing makes me feel so stupid. And, my God, I had forty I.Q. points on the son-of-a-bitch. He wasn’t even bright!

Dr. Parrish waited.

Bedie grabbed a Kleenex from the box on the glass-topped table beside her and wiped her eyes.

It was impressive that you were finally able to leave, Dr. Parrish said. So many women won’t or can’t. You were very brave.

Bedie’s body straightened in her chair, the fists knotting. The son-of-a-bitch. She spoke quietly, but there was a note of fresh anger in her voice that made the doctor look up quickly.

I wondered why we were going over old ground, the therapist said. What is it, Bedie?

Their eyes met, then Bedie looked away. She was five feet six inches tall, but right now, she looked much smaller to Dr. Parrish; she seemed to shrink down into the chair.

Bedie dropped her face into her hands. I don’t know how to tell you, she choked, but I have to tell someone. Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if it had run out of strength. I’m hearing voices and I’m frightened almost out of my mind.

The doctor stared. What kind of voices? What do they say?

Bedie took a great shuddering gasp, then waited for her voice to steady. It’s just one voice, really. It’s Doug.

There was silence in the room. Dr. Parrish’s frown deepened as she sat looking at her thoughtfully. Bedie could almost feel the force of the therapist’s concentration, and it made her feel a little like a laboratory specimen.

When the doctor spoke again, it was with academic precision. Bedie, I’m feeling very confused here. Your husband put a bullet through his brain the day you left him almost three years ago. He is in a burial plot at Westhaven Memorial Park. Since the day after the funeral, you were in treatment for the trauma and for the guilt you felt over his death, and over the abortion. You have worked hard. That violence and abuse is part of your past. Except for the guilt you continue to feel and a residual guardedness towards men, which flares easily into hostility, it is over. So what on earth are you talking about?

Unconsciously, Bedie replicated the other woman’s straight posture, assured stare, and clear enunciation. No. It isn’t over. She tried to speak again, and had to clear her throat. She drew another shuddering breath, and looked straight at Dr. Parrish. Doug’s back.

There was another long silence in the room. Outside, a car drove by slowly, rap music blaring at high volume. As it faded into the distance, the therapist leaned back in her chair. Her shoulders dropped, her hands lay still in her lap. Why do you say it’s Doug’s voice that you are hearing? You told me you moved last week, into one of those old houses in the Steeple. Some of those houses are built very close together. Wouldn’t it be more reasonable to assume that you heard a neighbor’s voice?

It would be reasonable, but that’s not what happened. She looked defiantly at the doctor. I hardly think a neighbor would call me a bitch. Besides, I’ve always been a solitary person. Maybe that’s why I didn’t notice Doug isolating me from my family and the few friends I do have until it was too late. For whatever reason, I haven’t met any of the neighbors yet. She inclined her head, remembering. "Anyway, this was