The Secrets of Snapdragon Cottage

I am ready to obtain hard, objective evidence that the family cottage is haunted.

The linkspan groans and scrapes as it lowers into place on the front of the ferry. Cars drive off the boat in a slow single file. I double check the connection of my bike trailer and put on my helmet. Excitement fills me with every breath of salty air. Visiting Prudence Island always feels like Coming Home.

The cars are off. Cyclists and pedestrians have our chance. I pedal slowly over the bumpy dock and gravel parking lot. My equipment is well-packed, but I don't want to rattle it too badly. I ride up the short slope and onto the road. I can hear the clunking sounds of cars driving from the dock onto the ferry.

The fresh bay breeze carries heavy summer scents--honeysuckle flowers, charcoal smoke, grilling hot dogs. It's a perfect summer day to be on the island.

I pass the beautiful old lighthouse at Sandy Point. Children play on the beach and jump from the floating dock into the water. I make my way up the hill, turn into the gravel driveway, and dismount.

It's an adorable cottage with red-painted siding, white trim, and a brown roof that really needs replacing. A handmade sign under the front windows reads, "Snapdragon Cottage," in Mémé's cursive. I retrieve the key from its spot behind the decorative shutters and let myself in.

"I'm here, Mémé," I say out loud.

According to the family calendar, my cousin Ricky had been here last weekend, so the air inside shouldn't be too stale. Still, I open every door and window. Nothing beats the gentle summer wind by the bay.

Next, I turn on the circuit breaker and the water. The fridge hums as it starts up. I unpack my bike trailer, put away my food, and drop my backpack on the bed in the largest bedroom. Grandpa and Mémé's room.

It's time to get to work.

I place two sets of every sensor in each room. My equipment immediately starts to record every fluctuation in temperature, electromagnetic frequency, light, sound, and vibration. My monitor shows me minute details about every step I take in the cottage.

I grin. It's going to work.

I've got time. I slather on the sunscreen, grab a beach blanket from the closet, and retrieve a book from my bag. I make my way down the hill to Sandy Point. I wonder if the lighthouse is haunted, too.

I bet there are ghosts all over the island. The Estuarine Research Reserve used to be a Navy base. There are ruins of colonial farms, a hundreds-of-years-old graveyard, a one-room schoolhouse, and two old churches. That doesn't even touch on the people who lived here before Europeans came. There must be no end to the unfinished business around here.

I lay my blanket on the sand and settle down. My book sits idly beside me. I look at the lighthouse and imagine an old man with white hair and nineteenth century clothes still tending to the light.

I spend hours on the beach; daydreaming, reading, watching gulls, listening to the general cheerful noises of people enjoying the summer. Eventually, I wander back up to the cottage.

I'm sure it's too soon to have picked up on anything. I check the sensor logs anyway.

The only interesting reading (if I'm generous with my interest) is a chill in the space between the queen-sized bed and Grandpa's bedside table. Air here remains two degrees colder than everywhere else. I run my fingers through the space and it does feel slightly cooler--as would any shady spot where furniture blocks the summer wind.

Grandpa George had made this perfectly normal bedside table out of pine. His and Mémé's initials, GS and BS, had been crudely carved into the side. Grandpa must have been feeling romantic. Odd that the carving didn't really resemble his handwriting, though. He had used a very round font, so the G looked rather like the number six.

Realization shivers down my spine. I had always assumed the carving represented the names George Savatier and Beatrice Savatier. But those S's certainly look like fives.

I walk to the bathroom, remove the medicine cabinet from the wall, and stare at Grandpa's hidden safe. He passed away a year and a half ago, but my dad and his siblings still haven't been able to agree on how to handle his safe. Remove it? Hire someone to crack it open? Reward its contents to whichever family member manages to open it? I've tried every four-digit birthday in the family, Grandpa and Mémé's anniversary, and a bunch of random numbers too. I bet my brothers and cousins have done the same. So far, the safe has remained inscrutable.

I turn the dial to 6-5-8-5.

It clicks open.

The safe is packed full of small boxes wrapped in plain brown paper, each neatly tied in twine. There is a stack of greeting cards tucked into one corner.

I check the cards first. They have floral designs. Some say, "To my Beautiful Wife, on her Birthday." A few read, "Thinking of you." Most say, "I'm sorry."

I pull out my phone and start taking pictures.

I gently untie each package in turn, remove the brown paper, open the little box, and photograph the jewelry inside. Grandpa had stockpiled brooches, bracelets, and necklaces, each in rose gold (Mémé's favorite).

I send my pictures in the family group chat with the caption, "The combo was GSBS, aka 6585."

Within moments, my phone starts buzzing with a deluge of texts.

Dad: "Way to go, Danielle! You figured it out!"

My cousin Andrea: "Can I call dibs on the elephant necklace?"

My uncle Richard: "I can get those appraised and sold in a jiffy."

My brother Michael: "Cool find. Thanks for sharing Danielle. I should do that for the Mrs too LMAO."

My aunt Rhonda: "That was supposed to be Mom's jewelry. Ellie and I should have first pick on it."

My aunt Ellie: "Dad never gave it to Mom. It's part of HIS estate, meaning all his kids and grandkids have a claim."

The aunts continue squabbling over inheritance, and I temporarily mute the group chat notifications. It's clear that my family doesn't appreciate this find for what it is.

Grandpa George loved Mémé with all his heart. He kept a cache of gifts and cards, ready to spoil her at any moment. Was this why Mémé haunted the cottage? So she could linger near the signs of her husband's devotion?

I wrap each box again and place them back in the safe, musing about romance.

I prepare my dinner, read more, and check the monitor again before bedtime. None of my instruments show any unusual readings.

When I crawl into bed, it's hard to settle down. Images of rose gold jewelry and paranormal lights drift in and out of my mind. Finally, I sleep.

A loud beeping sound wakes me in the darkness. My instruments have caught something!

I spring out of bed and follow the sound to the living room. One of the EMF readers wails electronically.

Because its battery is dead.

I groggily replace the battery and return to bed. I'm exhausted, but I can't get comfortable. I toss and turn. I could swear I feel Mémé sitting companionably on the foot of the bed, singing a lullaby I haven't heard since her death seventeen years ago.

Early morning birdsong on Prudence Island is an absolute cacophony. Sunlight has just barely started pouring in over the bay when I find myself wide awake. I yawn and stretch. I try to sleep again. I give up, get out of bed, and start a pot of coffee.

I check the night's readings. There had indeed been strange temperature fluctuations around the bed at night! But electromagnetic frequencies, lights, sounds, and vibrations all remained at the baseline.

Did this count as proof?

I certainly FELT like Mémé was with me. I'm convinced she was there. But for all my expensive instruments, the only noteworthy evidence I obtained was a strange set of temperature readings. A skeptic would easily write that off as some sort of abnormality in the equipment, or maybe a meteorological phenomenon.

I sip my coffee and fry up some eggs. I occasionally check my monitor and confirm that my instruments are working. They clearly report my movements and the stove's heat.

I say out loud, "Mémé, I sure could use a sign right about now."

THUMP.

I jump. The sound had come from the big bedroom. My instruments report a vibration and sound in there. My heart throbs in my throat as I walk in.

It takes a moment for me to notice what is amiss. The seashell-framed mirror the wall somehow tilted to the left. I remove it, half-expecting another recessed safe. There is nothing back there. I set the painting back in its place.

Curious, I peer behind the dresser directly below the painting. I see a manila envelope. Tension twists in my gut as I awkwardly reach back there and retrieve it.

It has no external markings.

I open it.

The first paper is a letter from the Law Offices of McDowell and Hart. It advises Beatrice Savatier to keep detailed records of alleged abuse. The envelope also contains an assortment of paper scraps with descriptions of horrible incidents, supplemented by Polaroid photos of bruises and welts, each one dated. Many have small notes like, "Purchased new underwear without permission," and, "Gave Danielle second scoop of ice cream."

My legs can't hold me up. I sit on the floor, staring at my name on Mémé's handwriting.

All these notes and pictures came from 2002, the year before her pancreatic cancer diagnosis. Grandpa George had been terrible to her. She had had enough. She was going to leave, and then… she couldn't.

My teeth start chattering. I realize I'm shivering. I feel Mémé stroke my hair, just like she did when I was a child. I try to lean against her leg, but she isn't there.

The manila envelope trembles in my hand. Was this why Mémé haunted the cottage? So she could linger near the evidence of her monstrous husband's abuse?

"I came here for answers," I say out loud. "You've only given me more questions!"

I don't hear the phrase, "It's complicated," out loud. But, I do sort of FEEL it.

"He loved you so much he hoarded gifts for you," I say. "But he hated you so much he…" Hot tears roll down my cold face.

Maybe the answer comes from my own mind, or maybe Mémé whispers it to me across the barrier between Life and Death. "It isn't about love and hate. It's about power."

Mémé had been a stay-at-home wife and mother. Grandpa's ability to hoard jewelry for her and dole it out with little thought reinforced her financial dependence. She had been so completely under his thumb that any "disobedience" on her part resulted in personal injury.

"What do you need?" I ask out loud. "What can I do to help you move on?"

I don't sense any words. I do feel a quick, intense touch of cold on my forehead. The kiss of a ghost?

Mémé's presence disappears.

I check my instruments. The only sounds they picked up were my own voice. The only vibrations, my movements. But I didn't imagine the spike of cold; that data had been recorded and quantified.

I pack up my things and tuck Mémé's manila envelope into my bag. I close up the cottage, load my bike trailer, and ride back to the ferry. I've got my evidence that the cottage is haunted… now, I have to figure out what to do with it.