The Woman in the Window

Photo Prompt One

  

The first time I saw her I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. I knew who she was, of course, having seen numerous articles and news stories depicting the woman, but the fact that she'd been dead for over a century gave me pause.

DeWalt Mansion was built in 1870. 58-year-old railroad magnate Charles M. DeWalt presented it to his young bride, 23-year-old Camilla, as a wedding gift. By 1875 the couple were just two of the many unfortunate victims of The Long Depression. The Technological Revolution made DeWalt a rich man in the decade following the Civil War, but his empire was dealt a devastating blow in the fall of 1874 and he never recovered. Bankrupt and destitute, Camilla refused to leave their home. In an act reflecting her utter debasement she stripped naked, knotted the billowy end of a black lace curtain under her chin, and leaped from the third-floor master suite, snapping her neck like a twig. It was from this window Camilla first revealed herself to me 135 years after her death.

The dilapidated mansion, empty for decades, was all but invisible from the road, secreted away behind overgrown trees and perimeter hedges run amok with inattention. The pebbled drive crunched under my tires as I slowed to a stop. Most of the first- and second-floor windows had been broken long ago. The For Sale sign hung askew from its rusted moorings, creaking forlornly in the afternoon breeze.

I'd gotten one helluva deal. Once rehabilitated, I could easily sell the home for three quarters of a million dollars. Maybe more. I'd paid $56,000 for the property. According to my estimates, it would cost approximately $150,000 to return it to its former glory, but even if I spent $200,000 the pecuniary gain would be significant.

I'd bent to retrieve the camera from the back seat when movement at my vision's periphery caused me to turn, and that's when I saw her. There, behind one of the third-floor windows, the curtain moved. The sun glinted off the glass, and I shielded my eyes. My angle was all wrong, so I sidestepped a few paces to stand beneath the shaded and bowed branches of a willow.

She was nude, slender arms raised above her head as she stroked the lace with delicate fingertips. Her breasts behind the gauzy material pressed against the pane. The ebony hair and carnelian lips reminded me of Elizabeth Taylor in Suddenly, Last Summer, and I couldn't look away. She was exquisite.

Come. 

I heard her voice in my head as plainly as if she'd whispered the word in my ear. I gawped, unable to move as if frozen in place. I closed my eyes, certain that once I opened them the apparition would be gone. She was not.

Come to me. 

Before my mind registered what my body was doing, I was moving across the lawn, or what had once been the lawn, and digging the keys from my pocket. The lock, a genuine 1921 Samuel Segal dead-bolt installed during one of the home's many remodels, wouldn't budge. I twisted the key with my right hand and wiggled the door with my left until the device popped free from its warped housing.

Broken glass and other detritus littered the mahogany parquet. Twin staircases rose to balconies overlooking the grand foyer, and I bounded up the right-hand steps in search of Camilla.

Door after door lay open to abandoned ruination. I passed each one with barely a glance as I made my way to the master suite. Comprising nearly one-fourth of the third floor, the quarters include his and hers dressing rooms, a separate bathroom with original high-tank toilet, the bedchamber, a sitting room, and a private sleeping porch.

I burst into the suite and stopped short, the doorknob gripped firmly in my hand. She stood near the window, her back to me. She was smaller than I expected, barely five feet tall, her voluminous tresses falling in wavy curlicues to the small of her back.

My heart pounded in my chest. I took a deep breath to calm myself. The scent of amber permeated the air--an earthy, somehow ancient fragrance, and the room's near-arctic chill made me shudder.

"Camilla?" The word was scarcely a whisper. I cleared my throat and tried again, louder this time. "Camilla?"

She turned to me then, and I thought I might fall to my knees. Is this really happening, I wondered. Am I losing my mind?

"Charles?" she asked tentatively. "Charles, is that you?"

I shook my head, momentarily confused. "Charles?" Then I realized what she was saying. "No, Camilla. My name is Micah. Micah Sullivan. I purchased this house and intend to rehabilitate it."

"My house?" she asked, taking a hesitant step forward, her visage flickering in and out like an old television stuck between channels.

"Well, yes. I plan to fix it. Once complete it will look very much like it did when you lived here."

"I do live here." She paused. "I ... I'm a bit bewildered, Mister Sullivan. Perhaps I should lie down."

She ambled toward me, stepped through me on her way to the bedchamber, leaving the sweet taste of vanilla lingering on my tongue.

  

The renovations were coming along nicely. With the help of a contractor--Deke Andrews--trained in the nuances of historic home rehabilitation and restoration, the job was but weeks from completion and we were barely six months into the project. A local bank had agreed to loan me the purchase price plus the cost of renovations, but because the house was condemned the loan was contingent upon my completing any major structural fixes and getting the plumbing and electrical up to code within eight months. We were right on schedule.

I'd chosen to live in the home from the start, becoming completely enamored with the place in the process. For the first four months the house had no heat or electricity, but by the fifth month I was able to enjoy a book in front of the fireplace while Debussy played in the background.

"Micah, have you seen my hairbrush?"

Camilla remained one of the property's historic features. She appeared to be resurrected concurrently with the structure--her presence more frequent and tangible with each passing day.

I was falling in love with her.

"It was on your vanity the last time I saw it. It isn't there?"

Camilla smoothed the Prussian-blue gown over her hips. I'd chosen the material myself, employing the talents of a local seamstress who specializes in period clothing to design a floor-length visiting dress to match Camilla's eyes. The effect was stunning.

"Oh, I do hope one of the workmen didn't abscond with it. It was a gift from my mother, and one of my most-prized possessions--a gold-plated hairbrush, mirror, and powder jar set given to me on my sixteenth birthday."

I smiled, rising from my chair to comfort her. "It's going to be alright, darling," I said, stroking her cheek. "I'm sure it's around here somewhere. I'll find it for you."

For two weeks I'd been able to touch her, but our contact was limited to hand holding, gentle caresses, and the occasional goodnight hug. Oddly enough I was the only one who could see her, despite the fact that she wore clothes made in my world of 2010. None of it made any sense, but I was too happy to ask questions.

The brush had toppled from the vanity, wedging itself between the nearby armoire and baseboard trim. The hairbrush really was quite lovely; the ceramic-like backing featured hand-painted cherubs surrounded by filigree scrollwork extending all the way down the handle. "Found it!" I said, descending the stairs to the sitting room. "It fell--"

Camilla had removed the pins from her hair; it cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. "Will you brush it for me?"

God, she was beautiful. Even after all these months I couldn't help but stare at the woman. I nodded, sidling up behind her.

"Where will you go when it's finished?" she asked.

I combed my fingers through her hair to loosen any tangles, the strands like spun onyx in my grasp. "I thought when I bought the place that I'd turn around and sell it for a profit after we're done with the renovations, but now--"

"Where will I go when it's finished?"

I turned her toward me, the fear etched on every contour of her lovely face. "Camilla, this is your home. You never have to leave if you don't want to. Besides, I haven't decided what I'm going to do yet. I do need the money. It's why I bought the house in the first place ... but I could stay, too. Or you could come with me."

"I can't survive in your world. I wouldn't know the first thing about life in two thousand and ten, and what kind of life could we possible have outside these walls? You are the only one who can see me. We could never attend parties together, never have children."

I embraced her then. I didn't know what to do, didn't know what was right. I knew that I loved her and didn't want to go back to a life without her. "We'll figure it out, Camilla. I promise. We've still got time."

"Three weeks," she said, nuzzling my neck.

"What?"

"I overheard the workmen talking today. They said the house would be done in three weeks."

  

"Thank you for your business, Mister Sullivan," Deke Andrews said. "This one was challenging, and I've always loved a challenge. We get most of our customers through word of mouth, so I hope you'll recommend us to anyone you know who needs a contractor."

I shook the man's hand and took the business cards he offered. "Will do. You guys did an excellent job--even better than I'd hoped."

"Well, it cost you a little more than you'd hoped, but renovation and rehabilitation still tend to be less expensive than restoration, and more practical for everyday living. You'll make a pretty penny when you flip this one. Just keep us in mind for your next one."

"My next one?"

"If you take the profit from this property and invest it into several others just like it, you might never have to work again. Not a nine-to-five, anyway. Wouldn't you rather work for yourself?"

"Yes," I said, smiling. "I would."

I stood in the entryway and looked at what eight months of hard work had accomplished. The house was beautiful. Andrews was right: the project had cost me a cool $206,000, more than I'd planned on or really wanted to spend, but it was worth every penny. The venture set me back a total of $262,000 if you added in the purchase price, but considering it appraised for $825,000 just yesterday I'd say it was money well spent. I was 32 years old, had worked as a security guard most of my adult life, and the idea of being independently wealthy had never really occurred to me until recently. What would it be like to never have to exchange my time for someone else's dollars? I wondered. What would it be like to be able to travel wherever I want, live wherever I want, buy pretty much whatever I want? I grabbed my keys off the console and opened the door.

"Where are you going?" Camilla asked. She stood on the balcony overlooking the grand foyer, her pistachio-green gown resplendent in the autumn rays slanting through the sunburst window.

"To the realtor's office. Maybe she has other properties like this one. If we sell the house we can buy more."

Camilla lowered her gaze. "But Micah, this is my home."

"It doesn't have to be. Your home is with me now. We can go anywhere. Live anywhere." I sighed. "I just want to look. Nothing's set in stone. I'll be right back, okay?"

She turned away, disappearing down the hall.

  

With the sale of the house final and all my bills paid, I was walking away from DeWalt Mansion with more than $500,000 in my pocket. My second project, the foreclosed and crumbling Brindle Bay Bed and Breakfast I'd purchased for a mere $78,000, looked almost as promising as my first. I loved Camilla and Camilla loved me. I'd already quit my job and was working for myself, by myself, on my own terms. Life was good.

As I stuffed the last of the suitcases in the trunk I glanced at my watch. 12:17. Our plane would leave in forty-five minutes, with or without us. We'd decided on a mini-vacation, and I was taking her to the Oregon coast for a few days. We needed a little downtime. "Time to go, Cam!" I shouted at the open front door. "We'll miss our flight!"

Movement at my vision's periphery caused me to turn, and that's when I saw her. There, behind one of the third-floor windows, the curtain moved. The sun glinted off the glass, and I shielded my eyes. My angle was all wrong, so I sidestepped a few paces to stand beneath the shaded and bowed branches of a willow. "Cam?"

She opened the window, the billowy end of a black lace curtain knotted under her chin. "I can't leave, Micah. It's my home. It is ... has always been my one true love."

Camilla leaped from the third-floor master suite, snapping her neck like a twig.

First Place Winner in July 2016's "Tales of Seduction ~ Dec. Round OPEN"  [18+]