Lottie?

　　"Just, say what you want to say or shut up already!"

　　Sigh&.

　　My headaches returned in full force with a fever yesterday morning, and the house just will not be quiet!! Just leave me to my misery! She hasn`t said much. Just heavy sighing between calling my name and creaking as her floors and frames remember earlier days. Better days? Perhaps not. Her sighs carry the weight of tragedy; her memories make her groan and shudder. I have to wonder which of her memories she finds the most burdensome- what stories she has yet to tell. And it feels appropriate that the weather outside is stormy- one last good storm before winter sets in.

　　Squeak, squeak&. Creak&. Lottie&? Sigh&.

　　"Just tell me what you want!!"

　　Lottie&. Sigh&.

　　I groan and sit up, the frame of the bed complaining as I shift my weight and shiver. The newly functioning thermostat reads seventy-five degrees when I get up to glare at it. I consider bumping the heat up further and then decide that`s probably overkill and shrug off the desire as a product of this confounded fever! And yet I`m shivering. I had to cancel appointments for the plumbers to come in and for Jay to come install the flooring. It`s so inconvenient! Jay was all disappointed over the phone. Apparently he had a surprise he was looking forward to showing me. But oh well. It will keep.

　　The thermometer informs me that my temperature remains at nearly one hundred and two degrees despite choking down some ibuprofen about an hour ago. Or maybe it`s been longer? Or maybe I forgot to actually take it?

　　Sigh&.

　　I should probably swallow some more and write down the time. That seems sensible as I am struggling more and more to keep track of time sensitive things not recorded in my phone calendar. I collect a pen and paper from my purse to keep under the bottle of ibuprofen, writing down: 400mg, 10:27 PM, 11/20.

　　Is it really mid November? And yet, it makes sense. It`s been nearly two months of the "contractors" phase- a month since my doctor`s appointment. Dr. Tiwari called about a week after that appointment confirming the high levels of my-something-toxins in my bloodstream. "You had the house professionally cleared of mold right?" she`d asked, and then she gave me a list of foods to avoid eating for a couple of weeks to reduce adding more my-something-toxins to my body while it worked to flush out the toxins already in my blood. "It should only take a few weeks. Keep drinking lots of water. That will still help with the headaches and encourage your body`s natural detox. Call me if anything gets worse or if things haven`t gotten better in a few weeks."

　　I never called her back. I sort of forgot. But I also sort of didn`t. What am I supposed to tell her? "The headaches are better until they aren`t, and the auditory hallucinations haven`t changed at all. If anything they are getting worse." She`ll send me to the loony bin! It`s not my fault that the house is& the way she is!

　　And yet I know that I should probably call. The thing is, my symptoms are manageable, and a drawn out diagnosis and treatment process would be incredibly inconvenient now that the house is finally getting to a point where I can "put it back together". Sure, the hallucinations are annoying, but they no longer frighten me. They simply are, and usually I can ignore them so long as I stay busy. See, therein lies the trick. I have to stay busy. Laid up in bed, all I can think about is how miserable I am, how much I wish I could sleep, and how annoying the house is!

　　This fever is annoying too. It came with no symptoms beyond the headache. No cough. No runny nose. No aches and pains. No digestive distress. Nothing. Just a fever and a headache. It`s all in my head. I laugh mildly at my own stupid joke. Obviously my body is fighting something, an infection of some sort, or I wouldn`t have a temperature of one hundred and two.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

　　Sigh&.

　　"Oh, be quiet. You don`t know what I`m thinking."

　　I`m thinking that now might be an opportune moment to pick up Sarah Atwood`s third and final diary. I could read a few entries here and there between naps hoping to help dislodge this illness from my system.

　　My grandmother`s rocking chair squeaks beneath my weight and every time I shift as I tuck blankets around my legs and shoulders. The third diary is at the bottom of the stack on the small table. A flash of lightning followed by a clap of thunder. I appreciate the modern amenities of electricity now powering a small lamp, allowing me to see without the need for a flashlight.

　　24 March 1875

　　The last months have passed without a diary as I filled the last one with my sinful confessions. The beginning of spring is now upon us in the settlement, and I fear that with the new beginnings, I can not claim my own personal renewal. I remain helplessly mired in the sin of devotion to a man I remain unwed to. My one consolation is that the forbearance required by my mistress during the day has been made tolerable by the promises of his kisses when the day`s burdens are set aside.

　　Yet I am troubled. Set in a habit of sin, it is less the tired and forgotten guilt that mars my blissful happiness and more the consequences I fear I may be with child. There is not a kind way of saying what is best stated absolutely. This is the purpose for which this diary was purchased. My mind has been deeply troubled by the issues that will befall me for entering into this delicate condition, yet I am uncertain that such a condition is mine. My education concerning these things is but a pittance, limited as it were to the incomplete knowledge that man and woman together require moments of intimacy and passion for conception to be achieved, and the woman`s womb swells as the child within her grows, causing troublesome symptoms to arise that hint at the presence of the child within. Such is the sum total of my education.

　　I have entered wholly into the sin that may succeed in conception. There is no sense denying that truth, so I shan`t. Were that my only reason for concern, I would remain unfaithful in my record keeping. However, I have been ill. A tiredness has beset me unlike any I have known before. I rise from my bed already weary, and I slip into slumber during every moment of stillness I am blessed to find. I struggle to eat, the smells and flavors of food distasteful, at times inducing a repulsion so exquisite that my belly rejects it forcefully. Most pressing, my belly has begun to swell. At first, I thought it was the natural cycle of swelling before the time of a woman`s burden, but then my time came and went without a mark, and my belly remains thick.

　　Confessing such things in writing, my hands are now trembling with the fear that comes from understanding. I can no longer wonder casually at these realities, and, heaven help me, it seems to me more likely than not that the consequences of my sins have at last caught me. I am with child. I am to be a mother, and my lover a father.

　　How am I to tell him?!

　　Well, well, well! That`s one for the historical records. Sarah Atwood, apparently, was at some point pregnant. This is quickly becoming a soap opera: the servant of the missus becoming the mistress of the mister (allegedly) and eventually becoming pregnant with his child when her contract explicitly denies her the privilege of any and all intimacy with men generally until the term of her contract is up. This isn`t going to end well for any of the parties involved.

　　The gossipy biddy in me is eager for me to continue with the next journal entry, but my headache is protesting keeping my eyes open at all.

　　Sigh&.

　　"Alright, alright! I get it! Mind your own business," I huff and set Sarah`s journal to the side, reluctantly rising from the old rocking chair to immediately sink onto the mattress of my bed. I spend a moment carefully burying myself under the mound of blankets and let my mind drift as my eyes close. I imagine Sarah Atwood sitting in her room and scratching out that journal entry, her hand eventually settling against her newly swelling belly as the reality of her situation sets in. Eighteen years old in a foreign land with no parents, no friends, no family, knocked up by some sexual predator she can`t even bring herself to name in her own private diaries for his protection&. "The fear that comes from understanding" must have been overwhelming. I imagine tears, maybe some anger, her head falling in humiliation and shame&.

　　My mind`s eye flashes once again to the pretty little prostitute I caught in my house with her own predator masquerading as a customer, her eyes and face downcast with the same humiliation and shame, long dark hair spilling in loose, sleek ribbons, her heart shaped face painted to look innocent. And then she looks up at me, tears of fear and confusion streaming down her face, her hands reaching feebly out to me. "Please," she whimpers. And for the millionth time, I pity her.

　　And I shudder, the tingling running the entire length of my spine before it dissipates. I shift in my blankets, forcing myself to relax into my pillow and clear my mind.

　　"Rest, little one. Isn`t it miraculous how a few winks of sleep can make everything ok again?"