The Visitor. Amanda Stevens

hallway outside my bedroom... If something had found a way in through the basement...

      Images spiraled through my head as I stood there trembling. The last thing I wanted to do was leave my bedroom to investigate, but what choice did I have? I needed to make sure nothing was loose in my house.

      Oh, how I wished for Angus’s company at that moment. Ever since the battered mutt had adopted me during a restoration in the Blue Ridge Mountains, he’d been my constant companion, a guardian against intruders from this world and the next. But he was in the country with my parents because I’d thought, foolishly perhaps, that they needed his protection more than I did.

      Grabbing a flashlight from my bedside drawer, I eased through the door and inched my way down the corridor, pausing now and then to track a new sound. Was that the scratch of a claw, the faint click of a door?

      By the time I reached the kitchen, I’d almost managed to convince myself that nothing was amiss. I was just about to step into my office when a soft thud brought me around with a jerk.

      My gaze went straight to the cellar door and I paused there with hammering heart. Then I tiptoed across the room, and I pressed my ear to the thick wood. All was silent in the cellar, but I could feel cold air seeping through the keyhole. Not for anything would I put my eye to the aperture, but I had to wonder if something was on the other side peering in at me.

      I knelt and shone the flashlight beam through the opening. A high-pitched squeal—or was it a whistle?—had me scrambling back to the middle of the kitchen floor. Drawing my knees close to my chest, I sat there quaking, my gaze glued to that keyhole.

      I still didn’t see how a flesh-and-bone intruder could have invaded my sanctuary. The only way in from the cellar was through that locked door...unless...

      Could there be a hidden crawl space somewhere?

      My gaze darted about the kitchen. The notion of a secret passageway was deeply disturbing, but I wasn’t about to go exploring for the entrance. For now, all I could do was seal the keyhole with a piece of duct tape and shove a table up against the door—futile precautions that did little to calm my nerves.

      Leaving lights on all over the house, I went back to the bedroom and crawled under the covers, bracing myself for another long, sleepless night. Turning to the nightstand to retrieve my novel, I froze with a gasp.

      The translucent husk of a cicada, perfectly preserved and still attached to a twig, lay on top of the book. The silver bookmark with the dangling crystals was gone.

Six

      I was very tired the next morning, having dozed only fitfully after I’d gone back to bed. The insect shell left on the nightstand troubled me greatly because it was concrete proof that something had been in my house, even in my bedroom. In hindsight, the actions of my strange visitor seemed almost childlike—pilfering my sparkly bookmark after a macabre game of hide-and-seek. But this revelation made the intrusion no less alarming. Quite the opposite, in fact.

      Despite my exhaustion, I managed to rise at a decent hour and was out the door well before nine. I’d scheduled a meeting with a local historical society for late morning, but I still had plenty of time to investigate Dowling Curiosities.

      I found a place to park, and as I walked along the shady streets, the sights, sounds and tantalizing smells of a Charleston morning helped soothe my ragged nerves. The tourists were already up and about, although most of the upscale shops along King Street’s antiques district were not yet open.

      Passing the address of the shop, I backtracked but saw no sign or shingle. I thought I’d entered the wrong address in my phone until I realized the shop was located at the back of a building. Access was through a wrought iron gate and down a cobblestone alley lined with potted gardenias.

      A sign in the window informed me that the shop would open at ten so I headed over to the harbor for a walk along the water. By the time I returned, it was a few minutes after ten and I could see some activity in the shop. A woman was just leaving and we nodded to one another in passing. Bells announced my arrival and her departure as the door swished closed and I stood for a moment gazing around.

      Dowling Curiosities was small, cramped and smelled of camphor. The restricted space might ordinarily have repelled me, but the light shining in through the windows was pleasant and the crowded displays had been styled by a clever hand: antique dolls dressed in mourning clothes, carnival sideshow posters in gilded frames, glass cabinets showcasing all manner of curios from ivory-handled dueling pistols to bizarre mechanical toys. And on long shelves above the display cases, dozens of antique cameras and stereoscopes.

      As I approached the back counter, a man came through the curtains and stopped dead when he saw me, his hand flying to his heart.

      “Oh, my,” he said on a sharp breath. “You gave me a fright. I didn’t know anyone was about. I heard the bells but assumed that was Mrs. Hofstadter leaving.”

      “We passed each other in the doorway.”

      “Ah, that explains it.”

      I looked around doubtfully. “You are open for business, aren’t you?”

      “Yes, of course.” He stepped up to the counter with a welcoming smile and I found myself charmed by his whimsical fashion statement—plaid pants and a sweater vest over a lavender shirt with a popped collar. He looked to be in his mid-to late thirties, but the silky sweep of dark blond hair across his brow gave him a boyish look that belied the tiny crinkles around his gray eyes. “How may I help you?”

      “I’m hoping to find some information about an antique stereoscope.”

      “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place. Stereoscopy happens to be a passion,” he said. “What kind of stereoscope are you interested in?”

      “I’m not here to buy. I found an old viewer in my basement and I’m hoping you can tell me something about it.”

      As we spoke, I removed the stereoscope from my bag and placed it on the counter. He picked up the device and lifted it briefly to his eyes even though the cardholder was empty.

      “This is a handsome piece. Manufactured by the Keystone View Company here in the States. You can still see their stag elk trademark on the side. See?” He pointed out the emblem. “The unit appears extremely well preserved for having been stored in a damp basement.” He gave me a reproachful glance.

      “I had no idea it was even there,” I said defensively.

      “What a wonderful find, then. I’d put the age somewhere around 1890 to 1900.”

      “That old?”

      “Yes, indeed,” he said as he carefully returned the viewer to the counter. When he glanced up, there was a shrewd gleam in his eyes. “If you’re looking to sell, I should warn you that the Monarch—which you have here—was the most common viewer on the market back in those days. Handheld units were mass-produced and relatively inexpensive even in the late nineteenth century. They’re collectible, of course, but not as highly prized as the larger stereoscopes.”

      “It’s not mine to sell. As I said, I came across it in my basement and I’m trying to determine the original owner.”

      “That’ll be next to impossible, I’m afraid.” He leaned an arm against the counter and I got a whiff of orange blossoms with a dark base note of hawthorn. “A viewer this old has undoubtedly changed hands any number of times. Unless you know how it came to be in your cellar, I don’t know how you’d be able to trace the provenance.”

      “That’s why I came here, Mr. Dowling—”

      “Owen, please.” He flashed a beguiling grin.

      “I think you may be in a unique position to help me...Owen. There’s a small silver tag on the bottom with the name of this shop and an inscription.”

      He lifted a curious brow as he