PART ONE

  It is deep winter, deep night. Outside, the wind howls across snow-covered streets.
Inside, the little girl pulls her covers over her head.
  She is in "her" room of her great-aunt's house, which is like a stone castle. The snow-layered limbs of the giant spruce scrape the outside walls. When the wind blows, the weighted needles scratch against glass.
  "Mildred!" The ghost's voice sounds as if it too is weighted and frosted with snow. "Mildred! Damn you. I hate you! I could kill you!"
  The girl feels the ghost moving closer. The air turns cold. The scent of roses fills the air. Her protective covers are pulled away.
  "I'd like you to drive around the block, please."
  "Lady. This is the address --"
  "I know. But please just drive around the block. One time."
  "I'll have to keep the meter running."
  "That's fine."
  The cab driver sighs and drives.
  I take a deep breath and relax against the seat, staring out the window.
  It all looks much the same, but this is the sort of neighborhood that doesn't change much. The homes are mansions, displayed on glossy lawns or hidden behind wrought iron fences or brick walls, like many of the homes of Kansas City's old established families.
  I haven’t been back here for over twenty years. Since my marriage, I’ve lived in the east. Of course I’ve told my husband and children about my parents, my brother and sister, my Great-Aunt Mildred. They don’t understand, though. They can’t, really. At ten and twelve, my children toss the phrase "dysfunctional family" around as lightly as a Nerf ball. My daughter wants us to have another baby, a little baby girl – she thinks she’d love a new baby. And maybe she would.
  Great-Aunt Mildred flies east each year to visit us. She’s eighty-seven, still going strong, still enchanting. We all adore her. My children say she’s the coolest old person they know. Well, almost everyone is captivated by Mildred’s charms.
  "Why can't we go visit her?" my daughter nags.
  Yeah, I want to see the turret room," my son clamors.
  Someday," I tell them.
  And I mean it, really. I certainly didn’t intend to return this way, on the insistence of my brother and my sister that we have a family conference.
  It's April, and I teach kindergarten, so it's not the most convenient time for me. On the other hand, my children can fend for themselves, and my husband’s so involved with baseball season he won't even notice I'm gone. I have plenty of sick leave saved up, so leaving work for a week isn't a problem.
  The problem is simple: I'm afraid to spend another night in this house. A forty-two year old woman, afraid of ghosts. Really.
  "Okay, lady?"
  We circle the block and are back at Great-Aunt Mildred’s house, which looms up from the middle of the three acre corner lot. We begin the approach up the long drive.
  "Stop here a minute," I say.
  There it sits, Great-Aunt Mildred's stone castle, glowering and Teutonic, as if transported from the Rhine. Its aspect is slightly softened by old trees: maples, oaks, magnificent old beeches like sleeping elephants, and of course that damned monster spruce at the turret window.
  Most little girls would be thrilled to have it for a bedroom, and I was, most of the time. I loved Great-Aunt Mildred with all my heart, and I was mad about her house. My parents’ home was in a new suburb full of sprawling ranch houses. It had wall-to-wall carpeting, sparkling new bathrooms, even a swimming pool. Every closet and corner gleamed with fresh paint, every room was brisk with right angles. A secret couldn't find a hiding place anywhere.
  By contrast, Great-Aunt Mildred’s house was a child's dream. Her eccentric father had built it in the early part of the century, and as many men did in those days, he displayed his wealth through the ostentatious complications of his home. The rooms are of unusual shapes and further embellished with bow windows, stained-glass, window seats, walk-in fireplaces, oak paneling which slides back to reveal hidden recesses, hidey- holes under the stairs, and of course the turret.
  On the ground floor, the turret room was my grandfather's private study, where he spent his twilight years re-reading Sir Walter Scott. The turret room on the second floor was my Great-Aunt Mildred's bedroom, until her father died and she inherited the house. It remained empty until I was about seven years old. By then my parents had begun their fighting, and they found it convenient for me to spend most of my life with my Great-Aunt Mildred. She thought it would please me to have her old room, the beautiful turret room. It did, until the ghost came.
When I was at boarding school in my teenage years, I learned that very few children have what the world calls a "typical" family. Many of my friends had parents who were divorced, and I heard tales of coldness and cruelty that I'll never forget. In comparison, my family didn't seem so unusual, and my parents certainly didn't seem unkind, but rather only very tired.
  I was the problem.
  My sister Susan was born when my parents were twenty-one, my brother Porter was born when they were twenty-two. By the time Porter and Susan were twelve and eleven, self-sufficient and civilized, my parents wanted to travel, they wanted to enjoy their lives, and suddenly here I was, a surprise, wailing, toddling, questioning, needing constant care --
  I don't blame my parents for sending me to Great-Aunt Mildred’s. They were so unhappy with each other by then and my presence always made them even more unhappy.
  I do wish I had been closer to my brother and sister. I’ll always wish for that. I remember how I idolized them, how I waited for their slightest glance. But they were sent to boarding school, so I seldom saw them. I moved in with Great-Aunt Mildred when I was seven and lived with her until I was fourteen, when I, too, was sent to boarding school. I adored Great-Aunt Mildred and I'm glad I inherited her name, although I'm especially glad to have the entire name: Mildred Anne. I only use the Anne. The only person who has ever called me Mildred is the ghost.

  "Lady?"
  The taxi driver’s brusque voice brings me up out of my reverie. I pay with shaking hands.
  It's still daylight, and it's not only the ghost I'm afraid of. It's my brother and sister, who are waiting inside the house.
  I don't think they meant to be cruel to me when I was little. It's just that they shared a past I had no part in, and they spoke to each other in shorthand, in code.
  Also, they never believed me about the ghost; they teased me mercilessly, and sometimes they even played tricks on me. As adults, we've kept in touch, calling with news of major events such as the births of our children. But we've never been close.
  The key I've kept but not used for over twenty years slides into the lock of the front door -- and turns.
I open the heavy door and step inside. I hear the taxi leave.
  The great cold entrance hall is empty. In the middle of the silver tray on a long refectory table is a letter with my name on it.
  "Anne, Great-Aunt Mildred told us you’d arrive this afternoon. We're all in our rooms resting. We'll see you at six in the kitchen for dinner. Susan."
  The house holds the hush of the sleepy afternoon. I step into the front parlor for a moment, glad to be alone. This room is almost a shrine to me. Memories drift through the air like the dying chords of an old song.
What a beautiful room it is, with thick Oriental rugs, velvet drapes, deep chintz sofas, shining brass, and fresh flowers everywhere.
  Above the fireplace hangs the oil portrait painted by Jefferson of the three sisters. Great-Aunt Mildred has promised it to the William Rockhill Nelson Museum of Art upon her death. For now I lean against the wall and soak in the pleasure of gazing at the picture in solitude.
  The three women have been painted so vividly they seem alive, as if they are in the room with me, as if any moment now they might move, smile, speak.
  Critics have always remarked upon the choice of gowns they wear. This portrait was done in 1934, when the sisters were young women. Elaine, who died soon after, is twenty-nine here. Helen, my grandmother, is twenty-three. Great-Aunt Mildred is nineteen. They look right at home in their satin and jewels. My grandmother is wearing pale blue, which suits her blue eyes and her delicacy. Elaine, the oldest, is in pink. Mildred, the youngest, is wearing black, a strange color for a girl not yet twenty. Mildred is seated in the middle, the spot where the oldest customarily sits for portraits.
  While the other two sisters look directly at the artist with pleasant smiles on their pleasant faces, Great-Aunt Mildred has her head tilted down and so looks up through her lashes. She is not smiling so much as holding back a smile, as if she shares a secret with the artist about the other two sisters that she's longing to burst into laughter about. It is Mildred who dominates the painting.
  My Great-Aunt Mildred was a trouble maker. And worse than that. By all accounts, except Great-Aunt Mildred’s, who will never discuss it with me, she was responsible for the tragedy.
  Not long after this portrait was finished, Mildred’s older sister Elaine was engaged to be married to Sheldon Winfield.
  But Mildred seduced Sheldon, and he broke off his engagement with Elaine only weeks before Elaine's wedding day. He confessed to Elaine that he was desperately in love with her sister Mildred.
  Elaine was almost thirty by then, and she could not bear the shame or the sorrow. She jumped to her death from Mildred's bedroom window, in the turret room.
  Mildred did not marry Sheldon. How could she, after her sister's suicide? In fact she never married anyone, so her father left the stone castle and his fortune to her, which surprised no one. She had always been her father's favorite.
  Helen, the third sister, my grandmother, did marry and have one child, my mother. She remained in Kansas City, but she seldom saw her sister. Perhaps she resented Mildred’s inheritance. Probably she was afraid that her husband would also fall prey to Mildred's charms.
  For there were always men in Great-Aunt Mildred's life. I know, since I lived with her. I saw them come in go; in and my heart I never blamed them, I understood it all. Great-Aunt Mildred always savored life to the full. She was funny and generous and kind. She lived life lusciously.
  From the front hall the grandfather clock chimes deeply four times. Leaving the front parlor, I lug my suitcases up the winding staircase to my room. Great-Aunt Mildred had a maid -companion, Ellie, but Ellie died last month. One reason we've gathered here is to help Great-Aunt Mildred find a new companion.
  The hall of the second floor is carpeted in red and hung with dusty portraits of our less exciting ancestors. It leads to the room at the end, the turret room.
  As I walk down the corridor, I listen for noises behind closed doors. After her parents’ deaths, Great-Aunt Mildred moved from her bedroom in the turret to the largest bedroom, which has a fireplace. When Porter visited, he always had what was long ago the nursery. My sister Susan always had our grandmother Helen’s room.
  And I had the turret room, where my Great-Aunt Mildred slept as a girl. From whence my Great-Aunt Elaine, whom I never knew, jumped to her death.
  No one sleeps in Elaine’s room. No one ever has since her death. The room is kept dusted and aired but it's always empty.
  I pass by it. The door to the turret room is open. I enter and pause to look around. Nothing has changed. I dread and love this room.
  There aren't many rooms like this in the world, with stone walls, stone floor, oak doors and cupboards, casement diamond-painted, stained-glass windows, and window seats set into the walls. The bed has a canopy and curtains in a melting pattern of lavender and green. It is truly a beautiful and romantic room, and I have many fond memories of happy times here. Great-Aunt Mildred used to lie across the wide bed with me, reading aloud Keats and Yeats, transporting into other worlds.
  Keeping these memories in mind like guardians, I turn on the lights and begin to unpack. Even though it's spring, and bright outside, little light gets through the spruce outside the windows, so the room is always shadowy and dim.
  After I unpack, I lie down on the bed to rest. Traveling is tiring. I need to rest. And the ghost never comes in the daytime.

PART TWO

 I'm tired but not relaxed enough to fall asleep. Also, I've never been able to return to this room without first, almost in reverence, remembering what went on here.
   My Great-Aunt Elaine, I've been told, was shy, gentle, romantic. She wore pinks and pale blues, and even when she was a grown woman she chose for her scent the attar of roses. Who would have dreamed that a pastelish sort of woman contained such passion?
   "Mildred, you have killed me!"
   Elaine wrote those words on her vellum stationary and stuck it to Mildred's pillow with a hatpin before jumping to her death from her sister's room.
   I've often thought that if Sheldon Winfield had known his fiancée had such capacity for ardor hidden under her passive appearance, he might not have broken off their engagement.
   Mildred continued to sleep in this room even after Elaine's suicide. She has told me, she has sworn to me, and I believe her, that never once was she visited in this room or any other by the ghost. The only reason she changed rooms when her parents died and left the house to her was that she wanted the larger bedroom with the fireplace.
   But why should the ghost haunt me? It's true I look very much like my great-aunt, but when the ghost started coming, I was seven, a child, not even pre-pubescent, nothing like the sexual creature Aunt Mildred was. Elaine died long before I was born. I never knew her. I could not have hurt her. I never even knew the story until I was in my early teens.
   But every year from the time I was seven, the ghost visited me about five times. I never knew when she would come. There was no pattern to the appearances, except that it was always at night, always when I was in a deep sleep. A rustle, as of long skirts brushing the carpet, would awaken me, or the creak of the heavy oak door slowly opening, letting in a slice of light from the hall.
   Or the fragrance of roses. That smell was overpowering - sweet, deep roses so vivid I would see the dark pink petals against the black of my closed eyelids as I floated up to consciousness.
   "Mildred! You are evil! I hate you! I'll make you suffer!"
   Those were the words the ghost said every time. A sense of violence, madness, rolled toward me through the air. Just before she touched me, I would scream desperately, and someone would come running to my aid.
   If Aunt Mildred came, she was always kind. She would rock and hug me, perhaps bring me some hot chocolate, and always she would crawl into bed to sleep the rest of the night through with me. I could relax back into sleep in the safety of her arms.
   My father and mother were not always so patient. First, they would soothe me, but often as not, a scolding would follow. Why was I acting like such a baby? Didn't I know the adults needed their sleep? When would I grow up and learn to control myself, to turn on the light and calm myself down and realize there was nothing in the room?
   The few times when I tried to talk to Porter and Susan about it, they laughed at me, and I suppose I can't blame them. They were terribly grown-up, almost adults by then, and before I was born, they'd had their turns sleeping in the turret room. The ghost had never come to them.
   "Don't be so crazy," was my brother's kindest advice.
   My sister Susan, who never did care for me, was harsher. "Stop trying to get attention!" she'd snarl.
   Now that I'm an adult, a mother, and a person who's done her share of discussing family life with friends and counselors, I can understand why Susan was so unhappy. She was the middle child, and our parents separated when she was a teenager. Porter was starting college then, concerned with his future as a young man on his own, and I had Great Aunt Mildred's love to stabilize my life. But Susan had nothing.
   Over the years, I've attempted to draw close to her, but she lives in California, and it just hasn't worked out. Porter lives in California, too, and I know they see each other often.
   I'm the one at the far end of this triangle. With them, I always have been. I never mind at all when I'm in my own home with my own family, but now in this house where I was a child, I anticipate the evening with childish fears.
 
   The ugliest room in my great-aunt's house is the kitchen, which was meant for the help and has never been modernized. Gray and white ceramic tiles mount to the high ceiling, gray and white linoleum checkerboards the floor. There are no cozy decorations, unless you count the knives and long-handled spoons hanging from wall pegs. Somehow this hygienic functionalism gives this room the dreary and even ominous aura of a hospital. The florescent lights give our skin a sickly blue tinge and our words echo.
   "Anne! Hello! Hey, no vampires tonight!" John laughs as I enter the kitchen, and waves at me with the knife he's using to mince garlic bulbs.
   "Hello, Anne. SO good to see you again." Susan turns from the sink. She's washing lettuce, and her hands are wet, so we can't embrace. I kiss her cheek. She kissed the air next to me.
   John has gained weight and started wearing his shirt open-collared, the better to show off his gold chains. He's fifty-seven. He looks foolish.
   Susan looks lovely. She always does. Her blond hair is perfectly in place and at fifty-six, she has the slim figure of a much younger woman. Perhaps she's had a face-lift since I last saw her; I can't quite tell, and I certainly won't ask.
   Great-Aunt Mildred is in the kitchen, too, ensconced in a large armchair at the kitchen table, sound asleep. She's snoring slightly and her elegantly coifed white head has fallen forward onto her shoulder. Still, this is not an egg-stained, flannel-robed, shawl-draped old woman. Aunt Mildred is as vain as she always was. Twice a week, a woman comes in to do her nails and hair. Tonight she's wearing a heavy pink silk gown covered by a hunter green robe, lined with pink silk, the collar trimmed with mink. I can't imagine where she bought such a thing. Although her body has grown as knobby and dry as if it were made of Tinkertoys, real rubies and diamonds flash from her ears, wrists, and fingers. When she's awake, her mind is still every bit as brilliant as her jewels.
   "I'm making pasta with clam sauce and fresh vegetables. My own recipe," Porter announces, busy with the olive oil.
   "Since his wife left him, he's gotten karmic," Susan snidely notes.
   "At least I'm mellow, babe," Porter retorts. "You're so uptight, if you sneeze, you'll shatter."
   This is something new, this sniping between the two of them. I wonder what the problem is.
   "What can I do to help?" I ask, trying to lower the tension level.
   To my amazement, my question more than does the trick.
   "What can she do to help?" Susan asks Porter in a sardonic tone, and they both laugh.
   I stand quietly, baffled, until Porter takes pity on me. "Pour us all some wine, babe," he says.
   It's money, I think. It must be money. Great-Aunt Mildred always said she was leaving this house and the lion's share of her money to me, and Porter and Susan have always made it clear to me they're angry about that.
   I hand a glass of wine to Porter, and one to Susan, but they've gone off into their own world now, and take their glasses without interrupting their conversation.
   "Remember Danny Warton?" Susan asks Porter. "Sarah's dating his son!"
   "NO!" Porter points his wooden spoon at her. "Danny Warton was a flaming fool. I refuse to believe my niece is dating his son. You've got to do something about it!"
   "Good Lord, Porter, Sarah's in college. She doesn't listen to me. Perhaps if you talked to her -- "
   "I'd be glad to, if you think it would help."
   "Oh, Porter, you know Sarah adores you."
   I envy them this. I wish they knew my children and I knew theirs, that my children were involved in their cousins' lives. I wish my husband and children were with me right now. I sink down on a wooden chair at the kitchen table, feeling the way I always felt around Susan and Porter. Left out.
   Aunt Mildred's eyes fly open. She's looking at me, smiling with love.
   "Annie, you're here."
    We hug each other tightly, then sit holding hands. "I was dreaming about you and George and Lloyd," Aunt Mildred tells me, laughing.
   "Pour me some wine, and I'll tell you." George and Lloyd were rival suitors, long ago, for Aunt Mildred's affections. I remember them well. I bring her a glass of wine, then sit next to her.
   "Remember the time George showed up while Lloyd was with me in the front parlor? You were the most clever little thing." Aunt Mildred pats my hand fondly. "You told George I was playing hide-and-seek with you. You said you thought I was hiding somewhere in the attic. While he went tiptoeing up the stairs, you told Odessa, who came in and warned me. I got Lloyd out of the house and ran up the back stairs and hid under a pile of old dresses just in time for George to find me! Poor man. He'd gotten so dusty by then!"
   I laugh, remembering. Life with my grown great-aunt was often like child's play, even though she was in her fifties the day we played hide-and-seek.
   Suddenly I realize that Porter and Susan are no longer talking. When I look, I see them both staring at us, with envy, or resentment, on their faces.
   "Porter, that smells divine!" I says. "How soon do we eat?"
   During dinner we all make polite conversation, then Susan and Porter clean up the kitchen while Aunt Mildred and I set up the card table in the front parlor. We settle in for a game of bridge. Susan and I are partners against Aunt Mildred and Porter, but when we stop for coffee, it is Porter and Susan who exchange a loaded look.
   "So tomorrow your applicants for the position of companion arrive," Porter says pleasantly.
   "That's right," Aunt Mildred agrees.
   "Aunt Mildred," Susan says. "I've been thinking. Wouldn't it be better if you sold this big old house and moved into something more suitable?"
   "More suitable?" My great-aunt's hooded eyes glitter.
   "Well, smaller. More manageable. Easier to clean. Perhaps one of those communities where there would be people your own age, with similar interests. . ."
   "I've lived every day of my life in this house, and I intend to die in it."
   "Oh, but that won't be for years, we hope." Susan's voice is cloying. "In the meantime, Porter and I do worry about you. Anne does, too, I'm sure. What if you sprained your ankle? What if -- ?"
   "The companion should put your minds at rest." Aunt Mildred sighs. "Susan, why not just tell me what it is you want."
   Susan flinches as if she's been slapped, and her face flushes.
   "I wasn't just -- "
   "It's all right. I know I'm staying alive an unreasonably long time, and you poor children have been waiting so patiently for your inheritances. I quite understand."
   "Susan was thinking of you, Aunt Mildred," Porter smoothly interjects. He pats Susan's hand. "But I don't mind speaking for her, as well as for myself. Times have been difficult lately. Both of us would be grateful for any financial assistance you could offer us now. But we don't want to put a strain on you. We thought that if you sold this house - it should bring a fortune - then you'd have plenty of money to give away and you wouldn't even notice it was gone."
   "I might notice I wasn't living in my own house," Aunt Mildred points out.
   For a moment we sit in uncomfortable silence.
   "Let's play poker," I suggest.
    "Good idea," Porter says. "I'll get the chips." We talk no more about money, but concentrate on our game as if playing for real stakes. Aunt Mildred wins.
 
   Later that night, tucked in the comfortable bed among lavender scented sheets, I try to relax. The last time I slept here was three years ago, but my husband was with me, and has been for all the times I've visited Aunt Mildred over the past few years. It's been at least twenty years since I've slept here alone. Surely not even a ghost has patience enough to hang around that long.
   I think of my children, who are growing up, turning into young adults. I think of my husband and his love. I feel my body relaxing. It's as if I'm dissolving. . . thank heavens, I'm going to be able to sleep. . .
   "Mildred!"
   Instantly, I'm awake, rigid with alarm. I can see, in the dark, only the green light of the travel clock I put out earlier on the bedside table. 3:15. I've slept, but I'm not dreaming now.
   "Mildred! You are evil! You are selfish, Mildred. I'll make you suffer."
   I reach out for the bedside light. I push the switch.
   Nothing happens. No light comes.
   When I packed for this visit, I feared something like this, so I brought my own flash light. I reach under my pillow for it.
   For one instant, my hand touches the cool chrome of the flash light. Then, to my horror, my pillow is wrenched away and shoved over my face. I'm pushed deep into the bed, the pillow smothering my eyes and nose and mouth. I can't even scream.

PART THREE

Reaching out, I manage to grab hold of two strong arms which press the pillow over my face, holding me fast in the airless black. Sick with fear, I realize these arms are human. Real. No ghost is so substantial.
  “Mildred. Listen. Are you listening?” The voice is an angry whisper.
  “Pay attention. I’ve come to warn you. Nothing but harm will come your way from this house or anything to do with this house. You must have nothing to do with this house.”
  I’m desperate for air. Panicked, I turn my head sideways, searching for a pocket of air.
  Suddenly, the pressure vanishes. I throw off the pillow, gasping, gulping. When my lungs are full, I scream.
  The hall light comes on. Susan flies into the room, pulling her robe on as she comes. “For heaven’s sake, Anne. What’s wrong?”
  “Someone tried to murder me.” I’m shaking violently and still gulping air.
  “Oh, Annie,” she says wearily, plopping down on the bed, hugging me against her. “No one tried to kill you.”
  Porter appears in the doorway. He’s wearing only jockey shorts and a tee-shirt, and his hair sticks up humorously in all directions. He looks like a grumpy porcupine.
  “What’s going on?” He crosses the room, flicks on the bedside lamp. When nothing happens, he says, “Bulb’s dead.” He stomps back out into the hall and down to the cupboard. Coming back in, he trips over something. Bending, he retrieves my flashlight. “This yours?” As he replaces the bulb, he yawns loudly.
  “According to Anne, someone just tried to kill her.” Susan pats my arm reassuringly, but I can see her roll her eyes at Porter.
  “I was afraid of that,” Porter says.
  “You were afraid someone would try to kill me?” I can’t hide my amazement.
  “No, no, no.” Porter exchanges an amused glance with Susan as she snorts with suppressed laughter. “I was afraid you’d have your old nightmares again.”
In the bright electric light, my brother and sister both look old and tired. I’ve awakened them, and they’re making an effort to be kind, in spite of the fact that they think, as they always have, that I’m a neurotic pest.
  “I’m sorry,” I tell them. I feel five years old again.
  “Well, God, it’s not your fault, I suppose,” Susan says, attempting kindness.
  I run my hands through my hair, thinking. “It’s been years since I’ve had the nightmare. The last time -- well, I was sleeping in this room. It only happens in this room.”
  Porter pulls a chair up so he can meet my eyes. He’s trying to be logical and reassuring. “Look, Anne. First of all, you know ghosts don’t exist. Second, no one is trying to murder you. It’s obvious that this room has some kind of weird, profound, psychological association for you. No use trying to figure out why tonight. We’re all too beat. I think the best thing is for you to go get in bed with Susan. Then we can all get some sleep.”
  With the last few words, his impatience shows through. I don’t blame him. It’s awful to be awakened from a deep sleep. I’m grateful that Aunt Mildred has become slightly deaf and didn’t hear all this commotion.
  “All right,” I concede. “I will sleep with Susan – if it’s all right.”
  My sister yawns. “Don’t be silly. I don’t mind. Just don’t hog the covers. Come on.”
  I trail Susan into the room that once belonged to Helen, our grandmother. She’s dead now, but I sense no ghostly shadows here. The double bed seems small for two people after the king-sized one I share with my husband.
 “Thanks, Susan.” I cling to the side, trying not to crowd her.
  “Have a good sleep,” Susan mumbles drowsily.

  But sleep evades me. It’s not the thought of the near-suffocation that ticks through my brain like an alarm. As terrifying – as real – as those arms were which held the pillow over my face, there is something far stranger which nags at my mind. I toss and turn, replaying the experience from beginning to end.
  Then I have it.
  For over fourteen years, five times a year, the ghost appeared to me, and every single time she said the same thing. “Mildred! You are evil! I hate you. I’ll make you suffer.”
  But tonight “the ghost” said very different things.
  Why?

  I sleep late, waking to a room of bright sunshine. I scarcely have time to shower, dress, and gulp a cup of coffee before the Meals-on-Wheels lady arrives for our conference.
  My brother and sister and I talk with her, and later, with the community health nurse who visits Great-Aunt Mildred twice a month. In her opinion, our great-aunt can continue to live in this huge house alone, although she agrees that if we can get her to accept live-in help, it would be safer.
  “Mildred is a gem,” the nurse says. “Eighty-seven and as fit and active as a sixty-year-old. I think it’s because she doesn’t have a TV. She’s always climbing up and down the stairs of this old relic. She goes out for walks, for concerts, for shopping. She’s vain, too, you know. That keeps her busy. I admire her.”

  That afternoon, we interview five different applicants for the position of companion. It’s exhausting. We can’t agree on any one person, and Great-Aunt Mildred hasn’t even met them yet.
  In the evening, Great-Aunt Mildred finds us sitting disconsolately in the front parlor.
  “You children look so tired! Let me fix you some toddies. I think you’re spending far too much energy worrying about me. By the way, did I tell you? I’ve arranged for a terribly nice man to start helping me with the heavy work: taking out the garbage, building me a fire in the winter, shoveling the walk. Perhaps you’d like to talk to him about living here.”
“Great-Aunt Mildred.” Susan’s voice is stern. “A man? I hardly think that would be appropriate.”
  Great-Aunt Mildred laughs. “My dear Susan. Are you worried about my reputation? At my age? Please. Anyway, I’ve invited him for a drink. He’ll be arriving at any moment.”

  The terribly nice young man turns out to be Fred Fox, aged sixty-five, a widower, retired from a lifetime as an insurance adjuster. Slim, he dresses like an Italian film director, with a black leather hat and a long sweeping “duster” instead of a coat. He’s got a drooping cowboy mustache and a full head of silver hair. He’s cheerful and bright. Clearly, Great-Aunt Mildred likes him.
  We ask him if he’d be interested in a job as Great-Aunt Mildred’s live-in companion. He would, indeed; he likes to keep busy. He has excellent references. We recognize the names. Susan makes it clear that she’s worried about his abilities, at his age, to take proper care of our great-aunt. Fred Fox offers to arm wrestle Porter or even carry Mildred up and down the stairs to assuage our anxieties. Susan says that won’t be necessary. Mildred’s eyes sparkle with glee. We agree to discuss it overnight.
  Fred takes his leave, promising to return the next day. Mildred takes out us to a fabulous meal at a posh restaurant on the Plaza, her treat. It’s possible she’s trying to soften us up. At any rate, the soft surroundings and wine help us speak our minds clearly.
  Susan clears her throat and begins the interrogation. “What if this Fred Fox tries to marry you, Aunt Mildred!”
  “What if he does? Is marriage a crime?” Before Susan can respond, Great-Aunt Mildred holds out an indomitable hand, wrinkled and spotted, but entrancing with its fabulous, unusual rings. “Be honest, Susan. Marriage isn’t want worries you. I’ve lived eighty-seven years without getting married. This would be an odd age for me to begin. You’re afraid he’d marry me and inherit the house and my money.”
  Susan drops her eyes. “Well, yes. I am worried about that.”
Porter comes to Susan’s defense. “You’ve got all your wits about you now, God knows, but face it, Great-Aunt Mildred, you’re no spring chicken. What if you become ill? Weak? Befuddled? At his mercy? He could make you sign all sorts of things.”
  Great-Aunt Mildred taps her lip, thinking. “Well, then, why don’t we do this. We’ll hire Fred to be my companion with the requirement that he sign a legal agreement stating that this is a temporary business arrangement and he will receive no money after my death.”
Susan and Porter consider.
  “But what’s to keep him from conning you into giving him money while you’re alive?” Susan asks.
  “You’re being tedious!” Great-Aunt Mildred snaps. “I’m sure there’s some legal way we can work this out.”
  “I’m sure there is,” Porter rushes to agree, unctuously. “Of course.” Susan pats Great-Aunt Mildred’s hand. “I didn’t mean to bore you. I’m just trying to look out for you.”
  “Fred Fox is more active and stronger than old Ellie was,” I remind them. Turning to my great-aunt, I suggest, “Perhaps you might take some trips with him as a companion.”
  Great-Aunt Mildred sniffs. “I hate flying.”
  “Yes, well, you’ve never been flying with a man.” That got her attention. I lean forward. “In first class, they give you free champagne. Oh, come on! I really want you to see our house and meet my friends. The children want you to visit. And you’d love Boston.”
  Great-Aunt Mildred’s eyes light up. “If I went on a trip, I’d have a reason to buy the clothes I want from the Safari collection!”
  I grin. “Boston isn’t exactly a jungle.”
  “Dear Anne, if a woman as wrinkled and old as I am inflicts herself on the sight of others, she ought at least to look interesting!” She muses. “The other passengers might think I’m an anthropologist returning from a dig.”
Susan squints her eyes suspiciously at me, then grabs Great-Aunt Mildred’s hand and gushes, “Of course you MUST come to California! You’d love it. Your safari clothes would be perfect there.”
  “That sounds lovely, dear.” Our great-aunt extracts her thin hand from Susan’s plump clutch. “All right, then. We’ve got some plans to make. Assuming, that is, that Fred Fox enjoys traveling and will be my companion – with all our legal conditions.”
  For the first time I feel we four are in accord. Jealousies and grudges have been put to rest, or at least put aside. Great-Aunt Mildred must feel that way, too, for she orders a very expensive champagne to go with our desserts.
  Back at the house, as we prepare to go our separate ways to bed, Susan stops me in the hall. “Anne. I’ve been thinking. There’s no need for you to go through another troubled night. Why not let me sleep in the turret room tonight, and you take Grandmother’s old room? I never have nightmares and I can fall asleep anywhere.”
  “Oh, that is nice of you, Susan! Thanks, I’d love to trade.”

  The double bed in Helen’s room was too small for Susan and me to sleep together in comfort last night, but it feels quite spacious as I snuggle into it now. My eyes close. I fall asleep at once.

  This time, there is no warning whisper. I awaken with a gasp – a pillow smashes my face. I struggle wildly, kicking and thrashing, trying to get my hands out from under the heavy covers.
  “Mildred Anne! Listen! This house is bad for you! This house will always bring you bad luck. If you value your life, have nothing to do with this house!”
  This whisper is harsh, angry. Suddenly the pressure is gone. Choking, I fling back the covers and breathe in sweet fresh air. Then I turn on the bedside light.
  The room is empty. My bedroom door is closed. I pad across the carpet and test the doorknob. It’s still locked from the inside.
  This time I don’t waken Susan or Porter. I tiptoe past their rooms, where all is silent behind closed doors, down the stairs, and into the library where the phone is. Sobbing with fear and anger, I call my husband and talk to him until I’m calm again.
  “Come home tomorrow, Annie,” Al says.
  “I can’t. There’s so much left to do here.”
  “Let the others handle it.”
  “My plane reservation isn’t for two more days.”
  “So what? That can be changed. You’ve got to come home. I don’t like it that you’re out there with all this going on.”
  “But I want to know what’s causing it! It’s not a ghost any longer. It’s--”
  “Annie. Forget it. You might never figure out what’s happening. I want you safe here. Promise me you’ll come home tomorrow.”
 “I’ll talk to Great-Aunt Mildred in the morning. If she says it’s all right, if there’s nothing else major to be settled. . .”
  “Call me when you know your plans.”
  “I will.”
  Comforted by his love, I wrap my robe around me and curl up on the leather library sofa. No ghost bothers me for the rest of the night.

  “What are you doing in here?”
  Great-Aunt Mildred is dressed for the day in a blue wool dress with her white hair pulled back in a chignon.
  I sit up, stretching. Morning light brightens the room.
  I don’t want to lie to her. She’s too clever for me to deceive her, anyway. So I tell the truth. “Oh, I’ve been bothered by that damned old ghost “ I recount the events of the past two nights when someone, or something, tried to suffocate me.
  “Well, now I’m angry.” Her body sets off in a head-to-toe tremor that makes her rings click together. “Don’t be upset, Great-Aunt Mildred. I didn’t mean to alarm you. But I do think I should go home today.”
  “No. Not today. Stay here one more night. Please. As a favor to me, Anne, stay.”
  I wrap my arms around her bony shoulders, feeling terrible for causing her such distress. “All right. I’ll stay, of course I will.”
  We wobble off to the kitchen for breakfast. Before long, Fred Fox arrives, and then Great-Aunt Mildred’s lawyer comes and we’re all so busy I don’t have time to think about ghosts.

  This third long day is over. I’m exhausted, but not relaxed. Pacing Helen’s bedroom, late at night, I try to be logical, alert.
  I know from childhood games that the interior walls of this stone house are honey combed with hidden passageways. I know the brass key that unlocks my bedroom door works on most doors in the house. I know the “ghost” has to be one of the three other people who were in this house with me the past few nights: Porter, Susan or my great-aunt.
  But I can’t invent a plan to trap my “ghost.” Pillows arranged to look like a body won’t work, for the intruder would know at once by the lack of struggle that no person lay in bed. I can’t trust myself to stay awake, hiding, watching all night, especially after two nights of interrupted sleep.
  I’m so confused. This time there has been no scent of roses, as there always was when I was a child. This time, the ghost physically threatened me, which never happened before. Before, the ghost always said, “I’ll make you suffer!” But why? Why then, when I was an innocent child; why now? I struggle to remember, but no matter how hard I push my mind, it comes to a dark high wall that shuts me away from the truth.
  Finally, I just crawl into bed, turn off the light, and lie, rigid, waiting with strained nerves for the slightest sound. I’m so nervous, I’m sure I won’t be able to fall asleep.

PART FOUR

"Mildred!"
  "I've fallen into a shallow pit of sleep from which I rise instantly. Someone is trying to smother me with a pillow.
  I push back the quilt and claw at the arms. In spite of my alertness, he is too strong, and perhaps in anger at my resistance, he shoves the pillow ruthlessly into my face.
  I can hear the ghost whispering at me in its raspy voice, but the blood drumming in my ears blurs all sound.
  I'm choking. My heart slams against my chest as real fear mounts. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps he does mean to kill me. Perhaps this is something supernatural, vindictive, insane.
  I feel the lights come on. Instantly there is noise, commotion, and I am free.
  I shove the pillow away, gasping. As my vision clears and steadies, I see my great-aunt wrestling with my sister, and my brother trying to pull Susan away. Their faces are all contorted with struggle and emotion.
  I see these three people struggling, my sister sobbing, pushing, hitting at Great-Aunt Mildred, my brother trying to separate the two women.
  But what I hear is: "Mildred! You are evil! I hate you! I'll make you suffer!"
  Suddenly I'm caught in a memory almost forty years old. I was watching and hearing my father, my mother, and my great-aunt.

  Porter manages to wrench Susan off Great-Aunt Mildred. He holds Susan against him until she calms down.
  "Oh, Porter," Susan wails, "it's not fair. It's not fair."
  Great-Aunt Mildred staggers to a chair and collapses in it, fighting for breath. Her hair ripples in white waves down her shoulders. She always had beautiful hair.
She studies me while catching her breath. "You've remembered, haven't you?" her voice is ragged.
  "Something, yes. But I need to know more. It's not quite clear."
  Susan thinks we're talking about her. Wresting herself from Porter's arms, she flings herself to my bed and catches up my hands in hers.
  "I wouldn't have killed you, Anne. I wouldn't have hurt you. You have to believe me. I only wanted to scare you. I just wanted to make you go away. It's not fair, you know. It's never been fair. Aunt Mildred has always favored you. She's going to give you most of her money AND this house!"
  "Oh, Susan," Porter sighs. "Oh, honey." He pulls the vanity chair near us and sinks into it, elbows on knees, head in hands, in an attitude of dismay. And I had thought it was he.
  "If you're this desperate for money, why not talk to me about it as if I were a rational human being?" Aunt Mildred asks.
  "I've tried to! But you don't listen! You don't care. It's just so difficult to get through to you." Susan sobs, her fists hitting her thighs. "I've always done the best I could, and I've never been able to please you. But Anne can do any single thing and you think it's a miracle! She's always been your favorite."
  "That's true, you know, Aunt Mildred," Porter agrees quietly. "I've always felt that way, too. No matter how Susan and I have tried, we've never been able to get you to love us the way you love Anne."
  An expression of great sorrow crosses Great-Aunt Mildred's face. Then, surprisingly, she smiles. "Anne is my daughter."
  "Don't be ridiculous!" Susan snaps, almost laughing. "That's impossible! You were--"
  "-forty-five when Anne was born," Great-Aunt Mildred states calmly. "It's not impossible. Surprising, yes. But not, I assure you, impossible."
  Looking at Great-Aunt Mildred, I see what I saw, cloudily, layered over and under the tableau of my brother and sister and great-aunt struggling. I hear what "the ghost" said: "Mildred! You are evil! I hate you! I'll make you suffer!"
  "Your father and I were lovers." My great-aunt stares us down, head high. "When I became pregnant, a spinster of forty-five - well. Maybe that's condoned now, but it wasn't then. I would have been ostracized completely. And you, Mildred Anne," she says, turning to me, "would have suffered the most. The world was not kind to bastards then. So Madeline, your mother--" now she looks at Susan, then Porter - "was told about this by your father. She did the marvelously compassionate and selfless thing of pretending to be pregnant, and then pretending that Mildred Anne was her own."
  "Poor Mommy," Susan whispers.
  Porter has gone pale.
  Great-Aunt Mildred reaches out to take my hands in hers. "Madeline didn't hate you. She loved you and cared for you as if you were her own child. But I loved you, too, and I was your mother. I lived in torment, Mildred Anne." Tears well in her eyes. "You must understand. You were my baby, my child, my only child and I seldom got to see or hold you. They did allow you to spend the night with me every so often. You loved the turret bedroom, you loved this big old house. But three or four nights a year weren't enough. I needed to be part of your life. One night, when you were six, they came to take you home. You'd already gone to bed. It was winter, the roads were covered with snow, I didn't think they'd be able to come for you. But they came." Her face darkens with the memory. "They wanted to wake you up and take you back to their house. I said no. I demanded that I get to have you live with me part-time. If they wouldn't let me have you part of every year, I threatened to tell everyone you were my child, and damn the consequences. I said I'd go to court, if necessary, with the record of your birth. But if they'd share you, I promised to keep our secret."
  Now I remember. "And my mother went crazy with anger," I whisper.
  "Yes."
  A cold fear drenches my skin. "You were fighting in the hallway."
  "Yes."
  "I woke up. I watched from the turret bedroom."
  "Yes."
  Closing my eyes, I let the scene unscroll before me. I see my mother hitting out at Great-Aunt Mildred, her face red and contorted as she yells, tears streaking down her face. It's a terrifying sight. I see my father struggling to pull my mother away. I hear my mother scream that my great-aunt is evil, that she hates her, that she'll make her suffer.
  Opening my eyes, I say, "So there never was a ghost. It was only a memory."
  Great-Aunt Mildred nods. "A traumatic childhood memory, struggling to break free."
  "My God," Porter says. "This is fascinating."
  "And there was no ghost tonight," Great-Aunt Mildred reminds us. "It was only Susan, trying to scare Anne from taking her share of the money. Or trying to scare Anne so she'd never have anything to do with this house, including keeping the profits of its sale when I die."
  We're all quiet now. We glance shyly at each other as if we're strangers newly met. In a way, we are. My great-aunt is my mother, my sister is my enemy, and my brother and sister are only my half-brother, half-sister.
  "Well, hey." Porter extends his arms in a gesture of forgiveness or welcome, as if he were a priest. "It's all over now. No harm done. What saw we put on our robes, go down to the living room, and have a brandy."
  I can't decide whether Porter's a fool or a sage. At any rate, none of the rest of us, exhausted as we are by our emotions, has a better idea, so we do as he suggests. But it's a somber late night party. We sit in the front parlor, with only a few necessary lights on, and drink in silence. We sit among shadows. Memories, guilt, grudges, longing. . .
  Susan speaks in a monotone, like someone under hypnosis. "Now I know why Mother was so unhappy. Why our parents fought. Why they separated."
  We know she's speaking of our mother. Their mother. Susan was close to Mother, Madeline, in a way I never was. It must have been terrible for Susan as a young woman, ready at last for romance and love, to see her mother and father stop loving each other, to see them prove how love does not last. When Susan stares at me now, there is real anger in her eyes. The message is clear: IF it weren't for you, my mother wouldn't have gone through such pain.
  Porter just seems embarrassed. Perhaps he feels he has to represent the entire male gender against the three of us seated here, wounded as we are in our different ways. Several times he clears his throat, as if to speak, and we glance at him expectantly. But he only sips more brandy.
  Great-Aunt Mildred is wearing a scarlet kimono with a gold and black dragon curling from the back over the shoulder to the front. The dragon is both gorgeous and dreadful. Her long white hair is loose around her shoulders. In the gentle dimness of the room, she looks years younger, and intensely beautiful.
  From the wall above the fireplace, a much younger Mildred and her two sisters, elegant in their jewels and satins, look down at us in our disheveled robes.
Mildred speaks. Her voice is quiet, but firm, not wavering with age or guilt. "Your father was only thirteen years younger than I. He loved your mother. But he became enamored of me. I suppose I seemed glamorous to him. Certainly forbidden. He was always such a good man, your father. Decent, God-fearing, hard-working, law-abiding. Often it's men like that, the best, who just go crazy for a while. "Your father went crazy over me."
  "Did you love him?" Susan asks. It's more a challenge than a question.
  "No, of course not." Mildred seems almost amused. "I loved Sheldon. I always loved Sheldon."
  Sheldon, the man who had been engaged to her sister Elaine.
  "After Elaine killed herself, of course Sheldon and I couldn't marry. I didn't feel like I deserved to marry anyone, not after causing my sister to commit suicide."
"You should have thought of that when you slept with my father!" Susan growls.
Mildred nods. "You're right, of course. I should have. But I was so lonely. . ." She shrugs. "Therapists might say that I punished myself by sleeping only with unavailable men, so I could never have the happiness of marriage."
  "Yes," Susan spits, "and in the process you injured a lot of innocent people!"
  "I wouldn't be judgmental, Susie Q," Porter chides affectionately. "We all are driving to extremes. You almost killed your sister. I think that scores higher on the sin charts than having an affair."
  "And, after all, if I hadn't," Great-Aunt Mildred points out calmly, "Anne would never have been born."
  Susan shoots me a look that makes it clear that would have been fine with her.
  "I'm tired." I could fall asleep right here on the sofa. The danger's past and my heart is full.
  "Me, too." Porter rises, yawning. "Let's go to bed and sort out the rest tomorrow."
  "Yes. And could we agree that no one will try to scare anyone tonight?" Mildred looks directly at Susan when she says this.
  "Fine." Susan juts out her chin defiantly and marches from the room.
  The rest of us follow her up the stairs to our rooms, leaving a few lights on in the parlor and hall, as if to keep away the darkness.

PART FIVE

 I sleep late in the morning, then shower for a long time, as if cleansing my spirit as well as my body. When I come down to the echoing kitchen, only Porter is there.
  "Aunt Mildred has taken Susan into the library," he tells me. "I've already spoken with her. There's fresh coffee in the pot."
  Porter is trying to be friendly, normal, so I make an attempt to match his tone.
  "You must have gotten up early." After I pour my coffee, I sit at the table across from him.
  "Well, Aunt Mildred's an early riser. And Susan and I," Porter pauses, thinking of a polite way to put it, "couldn't sleep well." He smiles and shrugs. Then he leans over the table toward me. "Look, Anne. Susan and I are both having financial problems. Serious ones, too complicated to explain. But we need more money, and we need it now. I'll admit that what Susan did, scaring you that way, wasn't very nice, but it was desperation that drove her to it. That, and the fact that Aunt Mildred's sitting on a pile of money, and not about to part with a penny till she dies, and then you get the lion's share." Leaning back, he almost collapses in his seat. "Of course it's all changed now that we know. . . Before, when we were all equally related, it seemed unfair that you should get more money."
  "I understand."
  "So does Aunt Mildred. She gave me a check. She's giving Susan a check. In return, we're surrendering any legal rights to any legacy. But hell, I don't mind that, it looks like the old broad's going to live forever!" He grins.
  Susan and Mildred come into the kitchen. Susan doesn't look at me.
  "Porter," Susan says, her voice cool and tight, "the taxi should be here any minute. I'm just going up to get my bags."
  "You're leaving?" I'm stunned.
  "I've already called the airport and made reservations for us," Susan tells Porter, walking away without meeting my eyes.
  Mildred crosses the room and puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "I hope you'll stay another night. We have a lot to talk about."
  "Of course," I reply.
  When the taxi comes, Porter hugs me and says, "Stay cool, Anne. We'll be in touch."
  Susan says only, "Goodbye," in the general direction of the entrance hall.   Probably she'll never forgive me for what she did to me, scaring me, just as she'll never forgive me for being conceived by our father and Great-Aunt Mildred.

   After they're gone, we spend the rest of the morning with Mildred's lawyer. We have plans for dinner that evening with Fred Fox. I'm going to go out for groceries so I can cook the meal. After lunch, Mildred suggests we go up to the attic.
The attic is crowded but not any dustier than the rest of the house. Clearly Mildred spends a lot of her time up here. Boxes of shoes, hats, costume jewelry and accessories are piled to the ceiling. Almost a century's worth of gowns, dresses, negligees, and furs hang in zippered garment bags from clothing racks. Several floral-printed boxes are lying with their tops askew. They're labeled, "Love letters." I can't help smiling. Trust Mildred to have boxes of love letters.
  "You certainly did have a full life, Aunt Mildred." It's hard to break the habit of calling her "aunt."
  "Well, yes," Mildred replies. "And no. I did have a lot of stuff. A lot of lovers. But I never had what I wanted most-a family."
  She pulls out a leather trunk, opens it, then, winded, sits down on another trunk. She gestures to me to look inside. The trunk is crammed with baby and little girl's clothing-all mine. There are pictures of me, too, taken at every year and stage, almost at every week of my young life, before I lived with Mildred.
  "I wanted a family. Tears come to her eyes and now her voice quavers. "Just because Elaine loved Sheldon first doesn't mean she loved him more. I loved Sheldon. I loved that man and he loved me. We didn't want to hurt Elaine, but we wanted to get married and have children and a life together. We had no idea Elaine would take it so hard. Sheldon had no idea she cared so much. There had never been any passion between them. Of course, we couldn't marry after Elaine. . . Sheldon moved back east, and I never heard from him again. I don't know if he married, or had children." Now Mildred is weeping. She looks old, frail, mortal. "I'll always regret-I'll always mourn. And Elaine! My sister! I'll always wish she had lived. I'll always wonder if she could ever have forgiven me."
  Unable to watch so much grief, I interrupt. "If you had married Sheldon, if you hadn't loved my father,  I  wouldn't have been born!"
  My mother looks up at me and smiles. "That's right. Of course, you're right. Lord.   What are we doing up in the attic? I must look a fright. Fred will be here soon. What a tale we'll have to tell him! When you go out for groceries, you must buy some decent champagne."

  This last night in my mother's house, I decide to sleep in my old room, the turret room. I'm full of sorrow for all that went on in the past, all the tangled and lost loves, but I'm equally filled with a gentle peace. Mildred-my mother-looked ten years younger in Fred Fox's company tonight. The two discussed plans to fly back to Boston to visit my family. My family. My good, safe, normal, family. I'll tell my husband about all this when I get home. But it will take some thought to decide what to tell my children. When Mildred arrives, shall I say she is their great-great-aunt, or their grandmother? It is the children who matter. We must also do our best to protect and nurture our children, and when all is said and done, that is what my father, his wife, and my mother did for me.
  I fall into a lovely deep sleep.
  Suddenly, a slight noise, as if from a rustle of long skirts across the carpet, awakens me. What's this, I wonder, straining my eyes to see in the dark room. But because I'm no longer afraid of "the ghost," I do not pull the covers up over my head in fear. I lie with eyes open in the dark room, waiting.
  The cold sweet smell of roses sweeps over me like a summer breeze. I see nothing. But to my infinite surprise, I feel a gentle kiss on my forehead.
  I wait. Nothing more happens. I sit up and turn on the lamp. The room is empty.
Perhaps this was only another vivid childhood memory which my mind has just released from its dungeon. A memory of Mildred, my mother, kissing me as I slept.
  But if so, then why did I smell roses?