The Silver Rattle

By Karen Lynn Tunnell

Mattie Cochran discovers an antique baby rattle in the attic of her grandparent's Texas farmhouse. A search for the rattle's original owner takes her to the overgrown family plot where she loses her way in an alter-dimension—or perhaps she's simply lost her mind. When Mattie stumbles upon her grandmother's diary, she begins to piece together the unsavory secret that's plagued the women in her family for generations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613091081

Book preview

Dedication

Steve, Karissa and Mother, you’re my biggest fans and I love you for it. A shout out to the Legacy Writer’s Club for your sharp critique and lasting friendships. I also want to acknowledge my Aunt Mollye for handing down your passion for writing and Nova and Cindy for encouraging me to finish my damn book!

And thank you Daddy and Kendall for paving the way for the rest of us. We miss you.

One

Darkness.

Mattie’s eyes searched the room like twin moths frantic for the warmth and reassurance of light. Forcing her focus on a far corner, she could see pale light sifting through in slivers. She formed the word blinds with her lips. It was her first cohesive thought in a long time.

Too much sleep and a medicine after-taste made a nauseating mixture in her mouth.

An itch. She tried to raise her hand to her nose but found herself paralyzed.

No, not paralyzed. Bound!

Panic leapt up, pumping her heart to an allegro beat. She could feel straps at her thighs and shins only allowing her legs to thrash sideways across starched bed sheets. But her arms were crossed on her chest like a mummy.

That’s it!

The realization her captor was a straitjacket sparked a memory. But the spark sputtered out. Her mind seemed to be washed clean. And it was maddening. She opened her mouth to cry out and the skin on her bottom lip split open, the metallic taste of blood seeping through.

Then she heard a bump. Or a step. The sound was subtle but audible. She could sense someone else in her tomb-like room, hear breathing at a different pace than her own. Turning her head slowly to the left, despite the protests of pain from her neck, she could make out a shadowy figure.

A man. He’s tall and thin. Or is it a coat rack?

Car lights angled through the blinds, shining on one end of the room, flashing on the man/coat rack and crossing to the other till they angled out.

Mattie’s first attempt at speech was barely a whisper. Who are you?

No answer, just breathing getting closer. Relying on the memory of the flash of light, Mattie pictured a man with a hat. And intense eyes.

Mattie tried again, achieving a hoarse squeak. What do you want?

Still no answer.

He was beside her now, looking down at her. She could smell a mixture of freshness and sweat—the almost intoxicating scent of a man who works outdoors. He brushed her hair away from her face. Her body instinctively stiffened at the invasion of her space.

You don’t deserve to be tied up like this, he said with a soft Texas twang. As he unbuckled heavy leather straps and loosened the straitjacket, she asked, Where am I? She rubbed the pleasure and pain of unrestricted circulation into her arms.

They’ve left you in here too long, he said, patting her on the shoulder. His kind and gentle gestures led Mattie to believe he was on her side, whoever he was. Then he kissed her lightly on the forehead and walked back the way he had come.

Wait! she whisper-yelled.

But he disappeared through the door.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, the room spun around, turning her stomach like a double-loop rollercoaster. She forced her feet to the cold floor and coaxed her numb legs to walk.

Grappling for the door, she found herself in a dark corridor guarded by a nurses’ station. A burly, middle-aged nurse looked up from her romance novel.

What are you doing up? she asked with irritation then with panic. And how did you get out?

Did you see a man walk past?

The nurse was beside her now. No one’s been by here all night. Who let you out of bed?

This man—just a minute ago.

Well, that just won’t do. I’m calling your doctor!

The nurse grabbed Mattie’s arm and pulled her back into the room, snapping on the harsh overhead light. Mattie surveyed her cold, sterile surroundings, stopping on her reflection in the mirror over the sink. She didn’t recognize the pale creature staring back. Her trademark blonde curls looked matted and dull. And her well-proportioned body seemed shapeless under the stained and wrinkled gown.

How long has it been?

Almost three weeks now.

Why—am I—here?

Don’t you remember? You tried to kill your baby.

Two

Seven Years Later

Running into the icy wind, Mattie clutched her two girls close to her. She helped them onto the impatient yellow school bus, then watched as they disappeared around the bend, caught in a trance by the puffs of road dust left behind.

Shaking off her foggy feeling, she ambled back up the drive, taking in the panoramic view of her home. Built in 1887, it had been considered a mansion by the citizens of Carlson. But now it was just a big old house, interrupting the monotonous line of the gray horizon. Large, but still a tiny intruder against the massive Texas sky and huge fields Mattie’s family had called their own ever since.

She loved the way the white pillars rose to the second floor, giving sturdy brace to the black roof that jutted out in front. Above, two gabled windows hinted of an attic, one of her childhood playgrounds. Mattie thought of her great-great grandfather carefully nailing substantial oak four-by-sixes, one plank at a time. She marveled at how those original boards had defied the torrid sun, torrential downpours and relentless wind that worked to erase their unnatural geometric lines from the natural rises and falls of the surrounding fields.

As she stepped with slow purpose onto the covered porch, which ran around three sides of the house, she thought aimlessly of all the generations it had given shade to. She pictured men chewing tobacco and discussing the weather, women sewing and fanning while they gossiped, and children taking every humanly possible position on the wide, wooden steps and railings.

She shivered as she opened the heavy wooden front door and closed it behind her. Rubbing her hands against her thin arms protected only by a light jacket, she heard the farmhouse whistle in a familiar key as gales blew in across the prairie.

I may be late tonight, Hank called from the master bedroom. We have an afternoon fertilizer delivery.

Mattie didn’t bother to answer. She hated it when they had conversations across one end of the monstrous house to the other. Hank came bounding down the back hallway and Mattie’s irritation melted into admiration for his athletic physique and handsome face, somber as it now was.

Did you hear me?

Yes. You’ll be late.

He followed her into the kitchen. "Are you okay?

She gave him the impatient look she always did when he asked her that question. I’m fine, she tried to reassure him.

Why don’t you decorate the house for Christmas? he suggested, adding more coffee to his commuter mug. You always look forward to that.

That’s the plan, she said, trying to cover her defensiveness with a placid smile. He treated her like a child.

She followed him to the front door.

Do you need me to get the boxes out of the attic?

That’s okay. I can do it. She could hear it herself. She sounded like a child declaring she could tie her own shoes.

Okay. Well, have a good day. He bent down to kiss her, the sweet, comfortable lips-on-lips kiss of an old married couple.

She watched as he walked to the truck, but had to close the door against the frigid wind before he backed out of the gravel drive. Trying to ignore the lonely coldness, she headed for the breakfast dishes.

Staring aimlessly out the window over the sink, she could see the swings that had been a gift from her parents for her sixth birthday. They flew recklessly to and fro. The oak tree she’d climbed as a child waved its branches wildly as though motioning someone to stop. To the left she could see a thin trail of smoke rising straight up from the woods.

Nothing out there except the shed by the graveyard.

I’ve never even been in that old shed. I’ll have to check it out sometime. The sound of Mattie’s voice broke the roaring silence of the house. Better not talk to yourself, she said sarcastically. Everyone will think you’re crazy.

Her thoughts drifted back to that time after Mary was born.

No! she shouted to no one. I can’t think about that today.

Mattie shook her head, trying to ward off those horrible memories. The disposal ground away the breakfast remains. She wiped her hands on the legs of her jeans. They were her favorite pair, conforming to her petite figure in just the right places. Her hands, now dry, were able to scratch her itching nose.

She caught her reflection in the shiny chrome of the toaster and bent down to peer in. She had always deemed her nose her best feature, turning up just a tad on the end. Despite her casual clothes, she thought her high cheekbones gave her a regal air underneath pale, clear skin. Then she adjusted her ponytail holder in an effort to tame her long, golden curls.

Her blonde coloring was from her mother’s side, although her mother’s hair had been straight. She could almost see her mother’s face in her own and hear her voice.

I need to see you, her mother pleaded in her memory.

Mattie was instantly taken back to her mother’s nursing home, particularly pungent that day from a mixture of humidity, Brussels sprouts and urine. After being hit in the face with that odor, she remembered feeling nauseous as she sat on her mother’s bed.

I need to tell you something, Matilda, her mother had whispered, something about the house—about the land.

Now, Mother, Mattie tried to lighten the conversation, you know we’ll take good care of that old house. Hank and the girls and I will bring it back to life.

No, you don’t understand. Her mother swallowed hard. There’s something out there.

What do you mean?

She seemed to struggle for each word. It can make you crazy. It made my mother crazy. And—it can happen—to you.

Mom, Mattie spoke with exasperation, what happened to me was post-partum depression, a hormonal thing that happens to lots of new mothers. Besides, what’s this got to do with the house? I think it will do me good to get out to the country again. Give us all plenty of time...

No, her mother interrupted. I’m not talking about that. It’s something else. It’s my mother’s diary—there on the top shelf. Take it with you. Read it.

And with that, she took her last breath of sixty-two years.

Mattie could feel tears forming in the corners of her eyes now, threatening to spill out in big, salty splats. She grabbed a paper towel from the roll on the counter and dabbed at her eyes. She realized she’d avoided thinking about that final scene with her mother for almost seven years.

Mattie was famous for always trying to look at the bright side of things. Yes, it was true cancer did a lot of horrible things to people. But one thing it did in a positive way, she would console herself, was prepare everyone else for their loved-one’s death. And she thought she had been prepared. Goodbyes were said, funeral arrangements were made, mental pictures of what life would be like without her mother were already formed. Still her mother’s death had taken her breath away—a devastation to an only child.

The diary, Mattie whispered.

Suddenly, after seven years, she was remembering her grandmother’s diary.

How could I forget? She searched her mind, frantic for some recollection. Perhaps she had overlooked it because of the emotions used up on her mother’s funeral. And then there was packing and the move to the old house—all while she was taking several potent drugs to even out her disposition.

But her mother’s final words were ringing in her ears very clearly today—such a gray day, a day she was determined to make as cheerful as possible with the fresh scent of pine needles and the quaintness of antique Christmas trinkets.

I think I remember slipping the diary into one of Mom’s suitcases.

She fished the flashlight out of the top kitchen drawer and headed up the stairs. They creaked in familiar tones, just as they had when she was a little girl, sneaking upstairs to play in the attic. She noticed the worn spot on the rail caused by little oily hands.

She felt an even deeper loneliness realizing that, along with her carefree childhood, her parents were gone, too. The rooms up here were closed off, empty except for a few pieces of discarded furniture covered in sheets.

Hank had installed an attic stairway that disappeared into the back hall ceiling. There was a ladder in one of the spare bedroom closets, but it would be perilous to use. She didn’t think anyone had climbed on it since her childhood.

Her daddy had told her many times to stay away from the attic stairs. She could hear his voice warn in her head, This house is really old. If you don’t break your leg on that broken-down ladder, then the rats’ll bite you.

Even his warning hadn’t squelched a nine-year-old’s curiosity. She had sneaked into the far bedroom closet and carefully climbed the treacherous ladder. It led to the attic, which covered the entire length and width of the house. She would entertain herself up there, rummaging through the old books and boxes for hours on end.

When she was confident the coast was clear, she would climb back to the second floor. But one particular time, as she looked down the ladder with each tentative step, a shiny object caught her eye. There was something at the back of the closet behind the ladder, and only a skinny nine-year-old who wasn’t afraid of rats could retrieve it. She slipped head first between the first and second rung and quickly snatched the object from the dark corner. Once on the other side, she peered at her tiny treasure.

It was a silver baby rattle with fancy scrollwork on the handle and GEC engraved on the side. She knew the C must stand for Callahan, her mother’s maiden name, but she couldn’t remember any relative with the initial G. She even checked the family graveyard. There was Jeremy Callahan, and an Evan and a Sarah and her great-grandmother Mary.

The rattle appeared to be very old and valuable, especially to a nine-year-old. But she never asked her parents about it for fear they’d take it away, or worse yet, find out she’d been playing in the forbidden attic.

Now she wasn’t sure what had happened to the rattle, and she was sorry she hadn’t asked someone about it. All the people who could have answered her questions were dead, that is except for Great-aunt Louise who was 107 and just sat and stared out the nursing home window, asking whoever would listen to please change the channel to the Mike Douglas Show.

Mattie gave the new attic stairway cord a hard tug, hoping the noise would scare possible rodents into their hiding places. Pieces of insulation fell around her shoulders and a blast of cold air swirled into the hallway. She steadied herself as she climbed up into the enormous attic and pulled the string of the dangling exposed light bulb. It swung back and forth, shining on one end of the dark attic, then the other until it came to a halt.

Boxes marked X-mas decorations were stacked near the entrance, so she lugged them down the stairway, one by one. Once the chore had been accomplished, she climbed back up and pulled the flashlight out of her back pocket. Then she began searching the boxes in the shadowed corners of the attic, on high alert for spiders. The cobwebs hung thick as the dust and her nose began to itch again.

Lots of interesting things lived in the attic: her father’s old fishing gear, a parrot’s cage, a lady’s dress form, an old broken rocker that must have belonged to her great-grandmother. Mattie heard drops of rain making a soothing rhythm on the roof as she picked through the aging cardboard.

In one of the old boxes she found a few of her grandmother’s clothes. She pulled out a once-beautiful floral print dress with a yellowed lace collar and held it up to her. Her grandmother had been a tiny woman and yet the dress was unusually full.

A maternity dress. Wonder if she wore it while she was pregnant with Mom?

Just beneath the relic was an old photo album. She lifted it, careful not to disturb the layers of dust, and walked over to a window. There, in the streams of gray daylight, she began to turn the curled pages, taking her back to the early 1940s. The edges had curled and the colors in the photographs had aged.

Most of the faded photographs were staged shots outside the big house. Her grandmother, twin uncles Seth and Simon and her mother squinted against bright sunshine. About halfway through the album, she was taken by such surprise, she dropped it. Quickly scooping up this prized relic, she flipped to the page in question, her heart pounding wildly.

It‘s the dress!

Her grandmother was wearing the maternity dress she’d found stacked on top of the album only moments before. Mattie felt such excitement at connecting the present with the past. But then she noticed Seth, Simon and her mother sitting on the porch.

What happened to this baby?

She quickly scanned the next page and the next, but no newborn could be found.

It must have died at birth.

She estimated the twins’ age at twelve, which put her mother close to ten years old.