and it was nothing special—”
“Hold up,” James angled the beam against the wall halfway to the kitchen. “Did you see this?” He walked toward something dark on the wall. A painting.
“No.” She followed him and they both paused, converging their lights on the picture.
In the painting stood a bride, off-center and to the left. Behind a thin white veil, she had sunken cheekbones and ragged, empty pits for eyes. A dusty hole of a mouth gave the figure a tormented look. A ghost bride, James thought. The stairs behind the bride dominated the painting. Large, oak stairs with a long, thick banister, kind of like…kind of…
“You know,” James said. “I think that’s a painting of this place. Maybe it’s her, the woman who lived here. I mean, we’ve all heard about the veil.”
“I…hope not. I really don’t want to believe the…stories.” Her voice sounded strained. “Can you imagine never leaving your house? I mean, that’s suffocating.”
She still hadn’t taken her eyes off of the painting. James fought the urge to step outside to cool off.
“Or solace,” he countered.
“Huh?” Lenora asked, turning to him.
“People think she never left because of the fire or her face or whatever, but what if this house reminded her of her fiancé? He was building it for her and maybe it was…comforting…to be here. You know, to avoid being around people asking questions.”
“Questions,” Lenora repeated.
“Questions she didn’t want to hear, didn’t know how to answer,” he said. “I mean, she never saw him again. How could she face his death if she never saw evidence of it? He was MIA. She probably…it probably took some time to let him go."