August 17, 1931

My nerves are a mess. I’m not sleeping. Can hardly eat.

I tell Will it’s the construction: the constant banging and yelling and sawing. The men tromping with their big boots, stinking of sweat and cigarettes and last night’s rum. The sawdust and plaster dust that seems to cover every surface of the house. The fact that I can’t find anything—my favorite shoes, our cast-iron frying pan. Our lives are still packed away in boxes, and we are only taking out what few things we absolutely need until the house is finished. The last thing we want to do is add to the chaos.

But the truth is, living at the building site is not what’s put me on edge.

It’s the pool. I feel like I spend all my energy each day trying to avoid it, trying not to look. It’s a childish game I play: If I can’t see you, you’re not there. It’s foolish, really. What am I afraid of?

“It’s a hot day,” Will says. “You should swim. I’ll watch Maggie.”

“Perhaps.”

“You haven’t been in the pool at all yet.”

“I’ve been so busy with unpacking and setting up house. Not to mention chasing Maggie around and trying to keep her from being underfoot—or crushed by a ladder or scaffolding.”

I’m not the only one unsettled by the pool. The workmen avoid it, too. I see them looking at it, speaking to each other in low voices. They all eye the pool like it’s full of poison.

When I go into town, I feel the people looking at me, judging me. My clothes are too fine. Our car is too nice. I am an outsider here. They smile and are polite, but I hear them whisper when my back is turned. That’s her. The one from the springs. Some look at me with fear. Others, with pity. Like I’m a doomed woman.

When I went to church last Sunday, a young woman asked me about the springs. “I heard your husband had a swimming pool built from the springs.”

I smiled. “Yes, it’s quite lovely. Perfect for these hot summer days.”

Her face grew pale, she moved closer to me, whispered, “But don’t you know? That water’s cursed.”

The day before yesterday, a tramp showed up at the front door of Sparrow Crest looking for work and a meal. He was dusty and thin but had a kind face. Will convinced Galletti to try him out. I invited him into the kitchen and made him a sandwich and a cup of coffee. “Can’t work on an empty stomach,” I said. Blanchard was his name. He was terribly polite.

“Thank you kindly, ma’am. Beautiful house you have here, ma’am.” He sat down at the table after I invited him to do so, took off his hat, said grace, and ate. “I do believe that meeting you good people means my luck is turning,” he said with a smile. “And you won’t be sorry you took a chance on me. I’m a hard worker. I’ve laid railroad tracks all over New England. Helped build stone houses on the coast of Maine. Built boats down in Connecticut. I’m good with my hands, see.” He held up his hands, which were calloused, weathered, his fingers stained yellow from cigarettes.

After lunch, Galletti sent him outside to finish the stonework around the pool—a job none of the other men would take. Blanchard went to work mixing mortar in the wheelbarrow and laying stones. Not twenty minutes later, he was back in the house, pale as could be, telling Galletti that he quit. The foreman was outraged. “These are nice people! They took you in. They fed you. And now you’re leaving without even putting in an hour’s work? It’s a disgrace.”

“The pool,” Blanchard said.

“What about it?”

“I saw—”

“What?” Galletti barked.

“I can’t—I’m sorry.” And Blanchard left the house, practically running to the front door. I watched him out the window. He jogged down the driveway, looking back over his shoulder like he expected someone might be chasing him.

August 21, 1931

This evening, after eight o’clock, I was upstairs in Maggie’s room. I’d just put her to bed and was sitting in the rocking chair, holding the book I’d been reading her, when I heard the commotion outside. Men yelling out by the pool. The men have been working late each day, and weekends, too. Will’s pushing them to get back on schedule, says there will be extra money for all of them if they finish early.

I went downstairs, out the kitchen door.

“What’s happened?” I asked Will.

“One of the men fell in,” he told me. “Galletti got him out. Everything’s fine, Ethel. Go back inside.”

I stepped closer, moving through the circle of workmen, saw that it was young Brian Smith, the one they call Smitty, who’d fallen. He was backing away from the water, dripping wet and shivering. Galletti was behind him, also soaked.

“Are you all right? Let me get you some blankets and hot drinks,” I offered.

“I did not fall in,” Smitty said. “She pulled me. She grabbed my leg and pulled me in.”

“Who?” I asked.

“There was a woman.”

“A woman… in the water?” My heartbeat made a whooshing sound inside my ears.

Smitty nodded. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down on his thin neck. “She was right there,” he said, pointing at the black water.

“I saw her, too,” said another man.

“It was her,” someone whispered. “The woman in the water.”

“The woman in the water?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“She grabbed me,” Smitty said. “Pulled me under. She wouldn’t let go.”

“We’ve all seen her,” said another man, the stonemason. His voice was raised, high and frantic. “Haven’t we? Hasn’t every man here seen her at least once? Heard her calling?”

“Who?” I said. “Heard who?”

“Please, Ethel,” Will said. “Go back inside.”

“Yes,” I heard men saying. Then whispers, as one by one they each admitted it, each beginning his own tale in a hushed breath. I only caught a few words: woman; beautiful; she sings to me sometimes; “come swimming,” she says.

“It was Eliza Harding,” said Galletti as he stepped farther away, eyes on the dark water of the pool.

“That’s impossible,” Will said.

“Eliza,” I repeated.

“Go inside, Ethel,” Will ordered, his voice stern. “Now.”