The Bottom of the Sea

Part 22: A Warning

I was sitting in a coffee shop with my laptop, doing some research before work. Thankfully, Jake had bailed on dinner the night before — in truth, I'd forgotten all about Missy's little 'fix-up' stunt, so when he cancelled, I was relieved. Missy promised lasagna from scratch and I would have had nothing in the house to feed him. Besides, after what I'd discovered in the archives, I just wanted to spend the night alone digesting what I'd learned.

The house was mercifully silent and peaceful when I got home. I took a long bath and spent the rest of the night in the elegant library on my laptop, looking up the death certificates on all of Elva's family and piecing the events of her life together. Finally, a story began to emerge — a tragic one.

"Would you like another decaf cappuccino?" The efficient barista asked as she whisked away my empty cup. "Yes, please," I said, my eyes glued to the screen, and one magically appeared minutes later.

From what I could piece together, Elva's husband spent two years in Belgium as part of the Canadian Army Medical Corps in WWI. Despite surviving the war, he arrived home with a bad cough and was eventually hospitalized. He died suddenly with a mystery illness. It turned out to be Spanish flu, and it tore through the household.

I didn't know anything about the Spanish flu until I began researching Elva's story. The 1918 influenza pandemic was actually the H1N1 virus, brought back to Canada by soldiers in the trenches of World War I. It killed 50 million people worldwide, including between 30,000 and 50,000 Canadians. Among them were Elva's husband and children. It was a merciless disease, with no known cure or vaccine at the time.

I sat back from my computer and let the information sink in. Almost every family who lived in that house had a tragedy, but Elva's was by far the worst. I'd read in one of the old issues of the Harbour Light that the house was referred to by locals as 'The House That Tears Built.' This was where I was living.

That old urge to run cozied around me and whispered in my ear. "You can get on a bus," it said. "Get out of this town, go anywhere and start over."

But the thought of Missy, Simon and Jake stopped me. I found good friends here, and I wasn't going to abandon them. And despite all the strange happenings, I loved the house. When it wasn't acting up, I found a comfort there I'd never experienced before. I was determined to find a way to make it peaceful so I could live and raise my child there. In truth, I didn't want to be anywhere else. The house had its problems, but I was inexorably drawn to it. If I could stick it out I could make it better, I knew I could. It just needed a little time and care.

I thought of that one psychic that toured the house. Maybe she could help me. All the psychics who responded to Missy's ad to cleanse the house were completely full of shit. All of them except for her.

The woman was older, and the hard life she lived was mapped in the lines on her face. Her hair fell in black waves past her shoulders, and it was streaked with silver. She had teamed up with some college kids from the local university and they wandered excitedly through our house with their gadgets and gizmos, talking to the air. "Who lives in this house?" "If you can hear me, please give me a sign."

It seemed to me like they were just dying for something weird to happen so they could post it on YouTube. It was a thrill for them to wander through the town's haunted house, but this was our life. Real people lived here and wanted to stay, two women who had been through the ringer, and a child missing his Dad. I didn't like any of those 'ghost hunters.' But there was something different about her. She sensed what was in the house, I know she did.

When the team bolted up the staircase to explore the second floor, she came up to me and laid a hand on my cheek. "Oh my dear, you're so tired," she said. Her eyes were like wet sapphires as she held my gaze. All the heartache I kept buried inside rose from nowhere and I had to fight to stop from crying. I felt like she was seeing right through me. "Be very careful," she said, casting her eyes upward. "He's getting close."