October Darlings

by Wendolyn Baird

  October Darlings

  Wendolyn Baird

  Published by Wendolyn Baird, 2020.

  October Darlings

  Copyright © 2019 by Wendolyn Baird

  All Rights Reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced or used without written permission of the author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, incidences, and locations are either the products of the author’s imagination, or else used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events are entirely coincidental.

  Cover design and editing by Wendolyn Baird. Original image- Lonely [digital image] (July 8, 2017) Retrieved from https://unsplash.com/photos/n5aE6hOY6do

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  October Darlings

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Dedication

  For all October Darlings, but especially my sister; I love you por vida.

  And for everyone who has haunted the shelves searching for their perfect Halloween book, I hope this is one for the running.

  Chapter One

  “FIRST THINGS FIRST, you won’t understand a thing about Nix House until you reckon with the fact that folks stick around after death.” Delia straightens a stray flowerpot from tilting off the edge of the porch and claps the dirt from her hands.

  My shoulders ache from the thick straps of my backpack digging into my bare skin, but instead of continuing my path up the steep, concrete steps, I gape at her, mid-step. Superstitious, my dad called her, as odd as the house itself, whatever that means. Still, I wasn’t counting on a proclamation of ghosts before I'd even stepped in the door. I hope she’s joking, but how should I know? It’s not like I’ve been here in years.

  Well over a century old, it’s a miracle the place is still standing. Fresh coats of paint and the rare renovations from the last few decades do nothing to hide the original personality of the house. The iron scorpion hanging from the front door only reinforces that effect, with its pincers curled in and welded together to form a perfectly macabre door knocker. When I was three, I’d named him Frank and insisted on greeting him every trip in or out of the entrance. Now I wish I could run back down the driveway and back into the car.

  “I don’t think you remember much of the place from before, but you should sink right into step,” she continues. “And we’ve got nearly four months before things get really interesting anyway.”

  “What happens in four months?” My voice half creaks out, unused after hours of silence.

  “Nothing happens in four months.” Dad slams the hatch of the Jeep with a heavier hand than necessary and ambles up the drive with a glare on his face. “She’s just trying to get under your skin.”

  “Now honestly, Jordan, you’re really taking that stance? After all these years?”

  “Yes, Del, I’m really taking that stance.”

  My head swings rapidly to each of their faces, as their formerly polite attitudes turn to sickly tension between brother and sister. Tucking my thumbs beneath my backpack straps, I shift, praying Dad doesn’t notice my impatience and start in on me next. He’s cranky when he has to drive, and today's been the worst road trip yet.

  “So,” I blurt out. “Which room am I sleeping in?”

  With a gracious smile, Delia throws the screen door open and I hurry along after her into the dark quiet of the low-ceilinged house. Seven bedrooms, three shared baths, and enough wallpaper to cover a museum, stepping inside is like entering a time capsule where no facet of my childhood memories have been altered. The same massive television set is propped into the corner of the den, sans remote of course, and we have to pass through the formal sitting room to even get to it.

  “You’ll be staying in the front room this time. I thought you’d like to be able to see folks coming and going during the day. Maybe someone will catch your eye.” She speaks with full sincerity that’s starkly at odds with my dad’s ‘no dating before college’ rule, but then again, I guess things work differently in small towns. And he is the one who decided to leave me here, after all.

  The narrow hallway is lined with heavy portraits of stiff, old relatives, peering down on me with a million sepia colored eyes. I used to run from one end of this hall to the other, just to avoid their stares, but now, all I can do is arch my back and follow as quickly as I can in Delia’s footsteps.

  “Jordan’s little Adeline just arrived,” she calls as we walk. “She might not look it, but she’s grown into a real sweet girl.”

  I cringe at her use of my formal name, and my shoulders tense as I pull my eyebrows down so far, my head starts to ache. Don't ask, don't ask, don't ask.

  “Um, Aunt Delia? Who’re you talking to?”

  Lifting her finger to her lips, she glances back over her shoulder, beckoning me on. “The rest of The House, of course,” she whispers. “It’s only polite.”

  Uneven weight plods across the hardwood floor as Dad treks in behind us, burdened with the rest of my belongings.

  I sigh, biting my tongue against the offer to help him. Everything has to remain the same, which is ridiculous. If anything was actually okay, he wouldn’t be insisting on me living with the batty sister he barely talks to. But no, we have to pretend like he isn’t dumping me here so he can undergo months of chemo without worrying me. I’d scream if I thought it'd help, but it would only cement his decision.

  Throwing curtains to the side, Delia beams at me as I cross over the raised doorstep and gawk at the rounded room. With a wide window seat, and a mirrored vanity distinct from the small desk and nightstand that huddle around the bed, it’s a large upgrade from the last time I came to visit. That room was cramped and cold, even in the summer.

  “Tell me what you think?” With hopeful eyes, she bounces on her feet, scattering bits of flour as she moves. She must have just gotten off work, but then again, I don't think I’ve ever seen her in clothes that didn’t have some bit of food or paint sticking to her hem or shoes.

  “It’s, it’s...” I struggle for words, caught between the surprise of space and the awful shag carpeting that must be several decades old at the very least.

  “Clean, but in need of renovation,” Dad drawls from behind me. “Del, why won’t you let me pitch in for the work? It’s half my place too.”

  Delia twists her lips as though there’s a full lemon hiding behind her teeth, and her quick nails drum across the footboard of the bed as she sizes him up. Normally, they’d argue, but we’re way past normal now.

  His grey tee shirt is wrinkled and lined from the drive, and his face isn’t much better. Only the spark of stubbornness in his eyes is reminiscent of the man he was a few months ago, and even that was a shadow of his former self.

  Inhaling slowly, Delia motions me to the side and very intentionally, takes my suitcases out of his hands. “You have enough to worry your bank account with for now. We’ll be right as rain just as we are.”

  The power struggle between the two of them is obvious; Dad insisting on keeping up with his facade, Delia nitpicking at her onl
y living sibling. My presence only strains at them both, each one vying for what they think is the best solution for me. As if I haven’t lost a parent already, as if I’m not nearly an adult. As if I was ignorant enough to believe this move is temporary.

  “So anyway,” I rock back and forth on the balls of my feet, “I can probably unpack later. It’s been awhile since we ate, do you think we can pick up some lunch?”

  Maybe I’m a coward for letting them continue and pretending this is all just ordinary stress. I just don’t want to think about the gravity of what today means. Or the goodbye.

  Both pairs of eyes latch onto me as soon as I suggest food, and it’s nearly impossible not to shirk away from the attention. My eyes flit from one to the other before shrugging the backpack from my shoulders. It drops onto the mattress with an audible thump and gives them time to recover.

  “Is the grill still open?” Dad shifts his weight, hesitant and hopeful all at once.

  “Every day for the last thirty years, eleven to ten. You up for a burger?”

  “Yeah, that might be a good idea before I head back. Addie, you’ll love this place, they’ve got sourdough bread and old-fashioned milkshakes.”

  “Anything is better than the gas station nachos we snagged on the way here. I do not recommend.”

  There, that's a perfectly average thing to say. Sulky, joking, not at all worried about becoming orphaned at seventeen.

  “Y’all ate gas station food?” Always the food critic, Delia is thoroughly appalled, her eyebrows trekking so far up her forehead they nearly meet her hairline. “Goodness, y’all need some decent food in your stomachs! Addie, why don’t you go ahead and get cleaned up, and we’ll meet at the door in ten?” Delia smoothly hustles my dad out of the room, leaving the thin wooden door trembling in place.

  I don’t even have time to protest that I’m fine as is, before they’re down the hall and their footsteps recede far past the den. Probably off to go fight some more. At least when he’s arguing I can still pretend he’s just having a hard day. Cranky. Not sick.

  Staring down the dark doorway, a chill emanates from the floorboards, creeping in to brush against my bare legs. With the sun warming my back, and a prickle at the base of my skull, I hurriedly kick the door shut and sink onto the bed.

  I can’t block out my pain and anger forever, but I can sure as hell try to postpone it. Groaning into a pillow, I take a deep breath and try to shake off the worry building at the back of my mind.

  The rough coverlet beneath me smells like a mix of lavender and sunshine, and as impossible as it seems in this day and age, I’m a hundred percent positive she dried it on a clothesline instead of in a dryer. Not even five minutes in the house, and I swear, I’ve gone back in time at least a good fifty years. If only I could really go back twelve.

  Flopping onto my stomach, I catch the light dancing across the walls as a car rolls by. Time passes so differently here than at home, and the sun is much lower in the sky than it should be.

  Everything feels differently than it should.

  Propped up on my elbow, I trace the seven-sided stars across the hem of the quilt until my arm hangs off the bed and threatens to go numb. I might as well go ahead and get cleaned up; I’ve stalled long enough. Besides, the way my jeans are sticking to my thighs I probably have red marks all the way down my skin from where the seams lay.

  Standing, I wander towards the window before opening my bag. As overly bright and hot as the afternoon is, it’s still a hell of a better sight than the expanse of antiquated decorations holding me in. Watching kids rush by on bicycles and a group of young mothers pushing strollers along the sidewalk feels like watching an old movie. If anything, at least I’ll be able to take some good pictures out here. Maybe I could go for a Norman Rockwell kind of vibe.

  I tug the thicker curtain from its hook and drop it into place, shutting me off from the quaint scene. Dust bunnies rush out of the dark fabric, clinging to my skin in a flurry of movement, and I jerk back, my nose wrinkling as the sharp urge to sneeze seizes me.

  Shutting the window cuts off most of my light source, and I shiver as the dim glow of the lamp on the nightstand casts the room in a ghastly shade. In the lowered light, the green quilt turns grey, the headboard's elaborately carved roses look like skulls, and the stark emptiness of the space overwhelms me.

  The draft from the hallway seeps in beneath the door, and the tips of my fingers grow cold. Must be some sort of fluke in ventilation when they updated the air conditioning system. Still, I wish the goosebumps racing up my arms and legs weren’t so pronounced. What’s up with this place? It’s nearly a hundred degrees outside. The electric bill must be off the charts.

  There’s a faint film of dust on the vanity mirror across from the bed, and easing past it, the reflection of my legs appear disembodied, as though unseen cracks in the glass are casting me into multiple places. The prickle at the base of my skull worsens, and my back arches as a chill slips down my spine like a block of ice being dropped down my collar.

  It’s just Delia’s silly admonitions, it’s got to be. But my heart rate picks up as the sensation worsens, reminding me of all the nights I’ve spent here before, tossing and turning in the dark of a room that would allow no sleep.

  My pulse races as I wrench my jeans up over my thighs and hop around, certain that if I get too close to the edge of the bed, something will jerk at my ankles. Such a childish fear, one I thought I’d forgotten.

  Cold sweat trickles at my hairline, and before I change my shirt, I snap on the overhead light. The dim lamp in the corner flickers when the brighter bulb clicks on, cementing my theory of overused electricity. I’ll have to bring it up before I freeze to death or short out all the lightbulbs.

  Focusing on the little I can control, I carefully unpack my camera and tablet, setting them on the edge of the vanity. The dust on the glass is slight enough that I can wipe it off with the side of my arm, but as I lean closer to the mirror, a blurred shape flies past me in my reflection.

  Jerking back, I stare around the room and back at the mirror, expecting a moth or a bee, or something. But the room is still, and there's nothing to the mirror but a slight smudge from my arm.

  It’s just an old house and I'm already letting my imagination run away with me. What’s next? Tomorrow I'll be setting milk out for fairies in the garden? Throwing salt over my shoulder while I’m cooking? Well, maybe not that one. I chuckle to myself as I drag my brush through errant tangles. Aunt Delia doesn’t let anyone actually cook in her kitchen, that much I know won’t have changed. It’s not like anything else around here has. Snorting, I drop my brush into an empty drawer and bang it shut with the side of my hip. May as well throw some extra deodorant on while I’m at it, and maybe pull my hair up completely.

  With a hair tie between my teeth, I step from the carpet onto the wooden floor, focused on smoothing my hair as neatly as possible. But the moment both feet leave the bedroom, my door slams shut behind me, jarring against my elbows raised near my head.

  “What the?”

  I drop my hands and the hair tie, my hair falling wildly across my cheekbones. The blood rushes to my head, creating a loud whooshing in my temples I can hardly hear above.

  Once just dim, the windowless hallway is now pitch black, leaving me blind as I freeze in place.

  A creak sounds maybe four feet in front me, the type of movement that suggests someone standing nearby.

  “Dad? Aunt Del?” I call out as loudly as I can muster, but the voice that slips from my lips is barely audible to my own ears. “Dad?”

  My heart stutters and I shake my head as I half wait and half dread a reply. My body sways on its own accord, and I throw my palms out, feeling the thick pattern of Nana's favorite wallpaper beneath my skin. Delia’s voice echoes through my skull, and this time, it’s harder to ignore her words.

  Tremors scatter down the thin walls, and somewhere on the other side of the house, Delia’s steps are clattering against the fl
oor. My arms tingle and pinch as though thousands of fire ants are swarming me, but there’s nothing there. My shallow gasps fill my chest with frigid waves, and again the chill at my back presses against my spine.

  Straightening myself in the darkness, it’s a struggle to lift my fingertips from the walls. As frightening as the shaking is, the idea of being completely unmoored in the narrow space is even worse.

  Four more doorways until the living room. Then the dining room. If I could just make it to the kitchen...

  Forcing myself forward, I steady my steps. I will not run down the hallway, I will not. Overly active imagination or not, I’m not a child. I don’t get to be a kid anymore. I’m not the same as I was the last time I lived here.

  It’s just all the stress, I’m tired, emotional... maybe it’s even the heat. Heat stroke can cause hallucinations, right?

  I pass the first doorway, then the second.

  I shudder past the third, hating the red scratches in the doorframe and the quiet room that lays beyond it.

  Only steps away from the fourth door, now. I can do this.

  A grating noise crashes down the hall and I jump as the scent of old perfume is driven around me by a blast of air from the vent.

  My heart clatters against my ribs as I fumble on. Gritting my teeth, I set my sights on the edge of the dining table, almost close enough to touch.

  And that’s when a new sound trickles to my ears.

  Squeaking, rolling, the cadence of uneven wheels across the worn floor.

  A noise I’m well versed with.

  Clearer than even my grandmother’s perfume and the bobby pins she wore in her hair, is the memory of wooden cars racing down from one end of the passage to the other. Cars I was told never to pick up again.

  Cars I thought I dreamt up. Faded reds and blues, all lined up against a sun-washed windowsill in my old bedroom. I loved to send them crashing across the long passageway and clapped when they came back on their own.

  Cursing under my breath, I barge through the dining room, slamming into the table as I rush past, and alarming Delia when the legs screech across the floor.