one,” Hibbs said. “That portrait of her up in the house? That’s true to life, or so I’ve been told.”
“Do you know a lot about the Garsons?”
“Oh, I’ve heard plenty over the years.”
“Do you know what happened to Indigo? She died so young.”
“I’ve heard her story,” Hibbs said. “My grandfather knew her. Back when he was just a boy. Told me she was the spitting image of that portrait. So it should come as no surprise that the artist who painted it fell madly in love with her.”
That had been my first impression upon seeing it. That the only reason an artist would have rendered Indigo Garson in such an angelic fashion was that he had been enamored of her.
“Did she love him in return?” I asked.
“She did,” Hibbs said. “The story goes that the two planned to run away and get married. William Garson was furious when he found out. He told Indigo she was far too young to get married, even though at that time being a bride at sixteen was quite common. He forbade Indigo from ever seeing the artist again. Despondent over her lost love, Indigo killed herself.”
I shuddered at the realization that another former resident of Baneberry Hall had committed suicide.
“How?”
“Poisoned herself.” Hibbs pointed farther down the hill, where a cluster of plants sat, their spindly branches covered with scarlet berries. “With those.”
“She ate baneberries?” I said.
Hibbs gave a solemn nod. “A true tragedy. Old Man Garson was heartbroken about it. The rumor is he hired that same artist to come back and paint his portrait on the other side of that fireplace. That way he and Indigo would always be together in Baneberry Hall. The painter didn’t want to, but he was flat broke and therefore had little choice.”
Now I understood why the portrait of William Garson in the great room was so sneakily unflattering. The painter had despised him, and it showed.
I walked to Mr. Garson’s gravestone, the smear of Maggie’s blood still there, now dried to a dark red.
“How widely known is that story?” I asked. “Does the rest of the town know it?”
“I suppose most do.” Hibbs gave me a gold-tooth-flashing grin. “At least all us old-timers do.”
“What else do you know about this place?”
“More than most, I’d say,” Hibbs said with noticeable pride.
“The day we met, you asked if Janie June had told us the whole story,” I said. “At the time, I thought she had. But now—”
“Now you suspect Janie June was holding out on you.”
“I do,” I admitted. “And I’d appreciate it if you filled in the blanks for me.”
“I’m not sure you want that, Ewan,” Hibbs said as he pretended to scour the ground for more graves. “You might think you do, but sometimes it’s best not knowing.”
Anger rose in my chest, hot and sudden and strong. It only got worse when I looked down and saw my daughter’s blood staining William Garson’s grave. I was so mad that I stalked across the wooded cemetery and grabbed Hibbs by his collar.
“You told me I needed to be prepared for this place,” I said. “But I’m not. And now my daughter’s hurt. She could have been killed, Hibbs. So if there’s something you’re not telling me, you need to spit it out right now.”
Hibbs didn’t push me off him, which I don’t doubt he could have done. Despite his age, he looked to be as strong as a bulldog. Instead, he gently pried my fingers from around his shirt collar and said, “You want the truth? I’ll give it to you. Things have happened in that house. Tragic things. Indigo Garson and the Carver family, yes. But other things, too. And all those things, well, they . . . linger.”
The word sent a chill down my back. Probably because of the way Hibbs said it—slowly, drawing out the word like it was a rubber band about to snap.
“Are you telling me Baneberry Hall is haunted?”
“I’m saying that Baneberry Hall remembers,” Hibbs said. “It remembers everything that’s happened since Indigo Garson gulped down those berries. And sometimes history has a way of repeating itself.”
It took a moment for that information to sink in. It was so utterly absurd that I had trouble comprehending it. When it all eventually settled in, I felt so dizzy I thought I, too, was going to fall and whack my head on William Garson’s grave.
“I’m not saying it’s going to happen to you,” Hibbs said. “I’m just telling you it’s a possibility. Just like