*

*

Chapter 8 Tricks

            The summer sky in England remains light until late into the evening.  Teresa arrives at the Manor House as the stars appear.  In the kitchen, she puts a pot of water on to boil for spaghetti. 

            “These electric stoves take forever!” she mutters.

             Teresa goes upstairs to turn on the computer and check her email.  She stops in the doorway, brows furrowed.  Books are upended; papers and tourist pamphlets are strewn across the floor as if scattered by a gust of wind.  The window is closed and has been since last night.  Teresa frowns.  She is sure that she stacked the books and papers before leaving for lunch.  She looks around the room with narrowed eyes.  Everything else is as she left it.  Had Trish or Ted come in to straighten up?  Perhaps one of them left the door open and…

            No.  Teresa shakes her head.  Papers whisked to the floor, maybe.  But not heavy books.  She turns on the laptop and goes back to the kitchen.

            The water in the pot is not boiling yet.  In fact, it’s still cold.  The burner is off.  Perhaps she turned on the wrong burner?  No, all the coils are cold.  Teresa blows her bangs up in a huff.

             “OK,” she says to the empty kitchen.  “You win, Margaret.  But please listen.  I’m here on a holiday.  Well, part holiday, part writing assignment.  I don’t mean you any harm.  The Manor House is a lovely place to stay.  So would you please, please stop playing tricks on me and let me enjoy my vacation?” 

            Teresa stops.  She is whining like a five-year-old.  Her face flushes.  Here she is, begging a ghost.

            Teresa makes her spaghetti without leaving the kitchen.  While she waits, she reads the first chapter of Jamaica Inn, glancing up every few minutes to make sure the stove is still on.  She eats and washes up.  Before taking her tea upstairs, she checks the stove burners.  If Margaret can turn them off, she could conceivably turn them on.  Margaret might be able to start a fire. Teresa shivers at the thought.

            In the bedroom, the computer screen is on, displaying a new blank page.  Three letters hang in the middle of the blue-white rectangle:

                                    Y

                                                            O

                                                                                    U                                                                                                                                                                                                        

            Teresa flops down on the side of the bed.  The room feels chilly, almost damp. 

            “Now what?”  she says into the cool air.  “Do you want me to leave?”  Teresa feels a surge of anger.  “Listen, Margaret, the tricks are one thing, but that laptop is my livelihood.  I have to write this memoir about my father by August.”  She stands up and goes to the desk.  “Look, I’m saving your page.”  Teresa clicks on “Save as” and types in Margaret.  “And anyway,” Teresa continues, “you died too long ago to know about computers.  So let me be.  I have to work.”

            Teresa opens a new page on the laptop.  After typing for a while, she realizes that the room is no longer damp and cool, but warm, as it should be, on such a summer night.