Midnight Whispers (Cutler 4)

"Aunt Charlotte?" He stepped out farther until the faint light from the windows made his skin shine and his eyes glow. I could see that he was a tall, lean man. "Who are you?"

"My name is Christie. I'm Dawn's daughter," I explained quickly. "And this is my little brother Jefferson and my daddy's brother Gavin."

"Dawn's daughter?" He lowered his shotgun. "You come here all the way from the ocean?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes sir. Are you Luther?"

"Yes I am. Well, I'll be. I'll be. Ain't this some-thing? How'd you git here? Where's your ma and pa?" he asked quickly.

"They're dead," I told him. "Killed in a terrible fire at the hotel."

"What's that? Killed?"

"Can we go inside, Luther?" I asked. "We've been traveling all day and night."

"Oh sure, sure. Go on. Watch yourselves on the steps," he added. "Killed," he muttered behind us.

The three of us hurried up the shattered front steps to the enormous entrance. Our shoes clacked over the loose slats of the porch floor and what looked like bats flew out from under the eaves and roof. Luther moved up ahead of us and opened the door. The additional light illuminated his face and I saw that he had dark brown hair streaked with gray, all the strands going this way and that over his deeply creased forehead. He had a long, drooping nose and deep-set brown eyes with a sharp web of wrinkles at each corner. His rough, gray stubble grew in patches over his dark face. When he drew closer, I caught the aroma of chewing tobacco.

"Go on," he commanded and we entered the old plantation house.

We found a long entry way that led down a corridor lit by candles and kerosene lamps to the circular stairway. The three of us gazed up at the large family portraits lining the walls and Jefferson started to laugh. All the faces of what must once have been dour-looking Southern gentlemen and unhappy women with pinched faces were changed, some would say vandalized. Funny mustaches and beards were drawn over those that had none—even the women! Yellow, pink and red paint had been used to add color to these dark and otherwise depressing old black and whites. Some faces were given dots on the cheeks, making them look like measles victims; some had silly-shaped glasses drawn over their eyes and one woman had a green ring coming out of the nostrils of her thin nose.

"That's Charlotte's work," Luther explained. "She thought they all looked too sad and angry. Emily must've done quite a spin in her grave," he added and smiled, revealing missing teeth.

"I was here once before, but I don't remember this," I said.

"That's fun," Jefferson said. "I want to do a picture too. Can I?"

"Ask Charlotte. She's got dozens in the attic she plans to do over," Luther said and chuckled. "Where is Aunt Charlotte?" I asked.

"Oh she's around. Either she's doing one of her needlework pieces or rearranging something here or there in the house. Go on into the sitting room on the right. Make yourselves to home and look for Charlotte. That's the only luggage you got?" he asked, nodding toward Gavin.

"Yes sir," Gavin said.

"Our things were stolen in the bus depot in New York City," I quickly explained.

"Is that so? New York City. I heard that's what happens there. You get killed or robbed minutes after you get there," Luther said, nodding.

"It can happen anywhere if you don't watch yourself and your things," I confessed sadly.

We continued down the corridor. The house looked even bigger than I had remembered. Above us hung unlit chandelier after chandelier, their crystal bulbs all looking more like pieces of ice in the dim light of the candles and kerosene lamps. We turned into the first doorway Luther indicated. Two kerosene lamps were lit, one on a round side table and the other on a dark sofa table. Luther went to the right and lit another lamp by a bookcase.

"Rest here a moment," he said and hurried out. The three of us looked around. Over the long semi-circular sofa was draped the oddest patchwork quilt I had ever seen. It looked like dozens of rags, pieces of towel, even washcloths were sewn together regardless of color or material. The same was true for the quilt thrown over the deep easy chair across fro, it.

On some of the walls, I recognized Aunt Charlotte's needlework. The pictures of trees and children, farm animals and forest animals were hung haphazardly. It was as if Aunt Charlotte had walked into the room and slapped them on wherever she found a space. Here and there, in the midst of this handiwork, were the old portraits and pictures of country scenes, houses and again, ancestors.

"Look at that!" Jefferson cried, pointing to the immediate right corner. In it there was a grandfather's clock, but over the numbers Aunt Charlotte had drawn and pasted pictures of different birds. Twelve o'clock was an owl and six o'clock was a chicken. There were robins and bluebirds, sparrows and cardinals, canaries and even a parrot. They were all drawn in bright colors.

"What the heck's going on here?" Gavin wondered aloud. All I could do was shake my head.

"Hello, everyone. Hello, hello, hello," we heard a jolly voice cry behind us and turned around to greet Aunt Charlotte. She wore what looked like a potato sack covered with strips of multi-colored ribbons. She was as short and plump as I vaguely recalled her and she still wore her gray hair in two thick pigtails, one tied with a yellow ribbon and the other with an orange. Despite her wrinkles, she had a childlike smile with soft, big blue eyes that sparkled with a schoolgirl's excitement. For shoes she wore men's brown slippers, each with a streak of white along the sides and a white dot on top where her big toe was located.

"Hello, Aunt Charlotte," I said. "Do you remember me?"

"Of

course," she said. "You're the baby who was born here. And now you've come to visit. I'm so happy. We haven't had visitors for so long. Emily hated visitors. If anyone came to see us, she always said we were too busy or we had no room."