Abigail stood against her red Jeep Cherokee parked at the edge of the gravel driveway of the deserted mansion.  The wind blowing out of the Northeast across Adam's Point flattened her long-sleeved white blouse and new navy blue pantsuit against her body, whipping her hair around her face while she desperately tried to keep its long strands from blocking her view of the scene spread before her.  Her unbuttoned jacket took on the appearance of a navy blue sail flapping in a gale behind her.  The widow's walk perched high above, struck her as a crow's nest on a sailing vessel of long ago. Shading her eyes, she swept the dunes to the ocean beyond and back to the house.  A flutter of a curtain from the third floor caught her attention. She looked again, but saw nothing. Must be tired, she thought. I'm beginning to imagine things.  She laughed.

     Her laughter, echoing over the dunes, stopped short as the curtain on the second floor moved ever so slightly. When she looked again, all was still. She shook her head. Without knowing why, her heart suddenly began to race as an excitement arose within her being.  Spellbound, she held tightly onto the front of her jacket and to a broken picket. As she stood transfixed, with her gaze upon the house, her long dark hair blew unrestrained in the wind.
 It didn't look any different from other stately houses she had seen on her travels along the shoreline and inlet seas of New England.   It still had an air of dignity about it with its white, clapboard-covered, multi-tiered and dormer-studded roofs, and its blue shuttered windows.  And, it seemed to be easily accessible by front, back, side, or basement doors. As always, there were the large floor-to-ceiling windows, first and second floor wrap-around porches, and a widow's walk sitting high atop the house. But then, too, there was a white picket fence in disrepair, running along the front of the property, its broken slats standing aloft, weaving in and out of the holding rails like drunken sailors on shore leave.  To complete its demeanor, the gate squeaked unattended as it swung free from restraint. On the top floor, from a shattered window, curtains periodically flowed through the break as gusts of wind blew wantonly through it.

     The house sat imperviously on a bluff, above windswept dunes that seemed to drift down to the sea.  The open ocean beckoned as its waves washed against the fragile shoreline.  What was it about this place that caused one to silently shiver, then shudder violently, and swiftly pass, always looking back over one's shoulder until they were a safe distance away?  No one could be sure. Was it because it stood unoccupied for decades, appearing so alone and forbidding?  Or was it because the last person to stay there had vanished into the night after a blood-curdling scream had permeated the air?  Something had happened here.  Yet, to this day, no one was really sure what.

     Abigail felt a compulsion to move forward toward the house.  Though her head told her "no," she wasn't listening to her head, only to the challenge that was in her heart. 
 In a rash moment, she was standing inside the grand main entrance hall.  Before her, the stairs rose to the second level and above. Her heart thumped as she felt herself being propelled forward step by step to the second floor.  The click of her heels echoed throughout the house. 

     From the darkened second floor hallway, she looked   furtively around at the closed doors leading to the rooms behind them and shuddered. Then she looked up. The stairs led even further.  She followed them to the third floor.  Again, the doors were closed to the rooms hidden behind them. What am I doing here?

     The light flickering in from atop the house sought her attention.  She again moved forward, on up a ladder, and out to the widow's walk above. Staring at the vast ocean before her, she wondered about the people who had once lived here, and who they might have been searching for as they scanned the ocean, waiting for the sailing ships to return to shore. 

 Abigail felt a tap on her shoulder and turned.  No one was there. She laughed silently as she shook her head. My imagination again.

     Once more, her eyes sought the sea before her.  There wasn't a single ship in sight. No sails. No modern vessels. Nothing Ö Just the clear blue ocean.  Its waves were washing gently upon the dunes and back again into the waters, taking with them a part of the fragile land. 

     It was dark when she looked away from the sea and back into the house.  If she were going to get out, she would have to make her way through a lightless house. Then again, she wasn't sure she wanted to leave.  She would wait for morning. At least here, on the widow's walk, she would be safe.  Wouldn't she?