by Mae Clair
Hollande fought tears. Had Sylvia planned this killing spree?
Desperate, she swept the room with her gaze, hoping for something—anything—to use as a weapon. The fireplace stood cold and black, both the poker and ash shovel missing. Cobwebs sprouted from lampshades and glommed into corners. Open to the night, the balcony doors sang like a siren, but certain death lay that way.
Her gaze tracked to a cherry desk, thick with dust. Nothing on the top, but the drawers—
She rummaged quickly, relieved when she found a letter opener under a sheaf of papers. The blade was blunt, meant to slice parchment, not flesh. With enough force, it might do the same damage as a knife. In the hallway, the steady tramp of Sylvia’s footsteps drew nearer.
Clutching the opener in her good hand, Hollande backed toward the balcony. Even if she managed to clamber over the railing, the drop to the stone veranda was too great, the unyielding surface sure to break bone. Her best chance was to stand and fight.
Pat-tap. Pat-tap.
So close now.
Sweat trickled down her neck. Her heart beat faster and mushroomed into her throat.
Sylvia flung the door wide. She paused on the threshold, hair sweat-matted to her temples, eyes stygian black in the sallow mask of her face. Her fingers twitched on the iron poker.
Hollande forced herself to block the image of Nathaniel—his skull crushed, blood pooling on the floor beneath him. “Please, Sylvia. It doesn’t have to end this way. I can help you.”
“I don’t need help.” Her voice was dispassionate, tainted by the cancer of madness. “You never should have come here.” She hefted the poker. “I can’t change the past, but I can make certain this house becomes your tomb. My son chose you, and so he shall have you—in death!” Without warning, she lurched forward, swinging the rod like a club. A violent displacement of air fanned over Hollande’s face.
She hurled herself onto the balcony—
—a step from death on the unforgiving stones below.
* * * *
Present Day
Madison Hewitt stood on the balcony and breathed the air wafting from Yarrow Creek. The heady scent of leafy green plants twined with the sweetness of Spanish bluebells and catmint, warmed by the heat of a late spring day. Elsewhere in Hode’s Hill, people took advantage of the long Memorial Day weekend by mowing lawns, opening backyard pools, or gearing up for three days of family cookouts. She’d chosen the stretch to move.
“This one is marked bedroom.” Her sister, Jillian, breezed through the doorway carting a cardboard box. She plopped it on the bed, then paused to swipe a strand of hair from her brow. “That’s the last of them. Roth left to take the truck back to the rental company.”
“Thanks.”
Jillian joined her on the balcony. “I love the view.”
It was just one of the many things that had attracted Madison to the house. A lot of people would have been bothered by the isolation, tucked eight miles outside of town on a dead-end road. She found it relaxing.
“I noticed there aren’t any streetlights, and the nearest house is over a block away.” Jillian worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “It’s going to get dark at night.”
“I’m a big girl. All healed.” Madison tried to keep the edge from her voice. “I can take care of myself.”
Jillian flushed. “You don’t have to say things like that.”
“Yes, I do.” The stigma of being mentally broken wasn’t easily set aside. “Sooner or later, I have to start over.”
“You have started over. You’re working again.”
“Real estate’s only part of it.” Brushing past her, Madison angled for the bed. Her career had enabled her to learn about the property the moment it came on the market. In search of something small and inexpensive, she’d met one of those goals. The house was far larger than she’d ever need, but the price had been too good to overlook. The previous owner had passed away in a nursing home, her only relative a distant cousin who lived out of state. Wanting to divest of the house quickly, the cousin had been willing to negotiate on many of the furnishings.
“The place is kind of creepy.” Jillian scuffed her arms. “Did you see the burial plot in the back?”
“It’s only three graves.” Madison dug a mint-green sheet from the box. “A lot of people had backyard cemeteries in the eighteen hundreds.” She fanned the cover over the bed.
Jillian caught a corner on the other side. “I still think it’s creepy.”
“Why? We’re used to tending graves.” Madison tucked a fitted edge around the mattress. “What about Gabriel?”
“That’s different. Our ancestors were tasked with that obligation centuries before we were born.”
“A person dies three times.” Madison recited the oft-quoted lore their mother had taught them. “Once when he dies. Once when he’s buried. And once when there’s no one left to remember him.” The Final Death. Straightening, she reached for the flat sheet. “I’ll make sure the people in those graves are never forgotten.” The same way she’d carried on the tradition for Gabriel Vane long after his tragic death in 1799.
Jillian frowned. “Grave tending is a serious responsibility. Those people out back are not your concern.”
“Maybe I want to make them my concern. I’m sure the woman who lived here before did the same.”
“You should let them be.” Jillian smoothed the sheet over the bed, the tense line of her mouth telegraphing apprehension. “Sometimes it’s best for the departed to embrace Final Death. You don’t know anything about those people or the lives they lived.”
“I know their names—Darrin and Sylvia Stewart. I think they must have been husband and wife. Their son is buried there, too.” In some strange way, the wind-pitted stones had spoken to her. “You worried about me being alone out here, but I’m not.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous.”
Madison quirked a smile. “Says the woman in love with a practicing medium.”
“Dante only experiments sometimes.”
“Maybe, but when he gets back from his art exhibition, I’d love to get his impression of the house.” Madison tossed her a pillowcase. “I’ve never seen him read a folk memory.”
Jillian grimaced as if recalling a particularly painful experience. “Sometimes there aren’t any to be found. And sometimes they’re better left alone. I have an uneasy feeling about this place.”
“No, you have an uneasy feeling about me living by myself after four-and-a-half years under someone’s nose.”
“True.”
Madison huffed out a breath. “Roth asked me to move in with him.” Her boyfriend was cut from the same cloth as her sister.
“What?” Jillian’s mouth moved soundlessly. She hugged a pillow to her chest. “I didn’t know it was that serious.”
“It’s not. I told him I needed a break.”
“You’ve been together six months. And it’s been over four years since Boyd was killed.”
“Boyd has nothing to do with it. I need time to myself.” She didn’t want to talk about it anymore or think of how supportive Roth had been—was still being—by giving her the space she needed. He’d said the “L” word and the prospect terrified her. She was stupid for bringing up the subject when her emotions were caught in a quagmire. Not something you wanted to broadcast when your younger sister possessed empathic abilities. “Let’s finish and grab lunch.” She reached for the bedspread. “I picked up some chicken salad and mixed fruit.”
Jillian nodded as if recognizing the conversation had run its course. After lunch, she helped with more boxes, staying until dusk. By then her dog, Blizzard, who alternately stayed out of the way or followed them room to room, was clearly ready for an overdue dinner.
Madison hugged Jillian goodbye, watched as her sister got the husky settled in the backseat of her Acco
rd then pointed the car down the narrow lane and headed toward Hode’s Hill. She waved goodbye from the driveway.
There would be fireworks over the Chinkwe River tonight, something Jillian would catch from the stoop of her brownstone. She’d invited Madison and a few mutual friends to join her, but Madison preferred to spend the first night in her new home alone.
She strolled around the side of the house, where an expansive stone veranda overlooked Yarrow Creek. The second-floor balcony ran the length of the house. From what she’d been able to deduce, that side had once been comprised of two bedrooms. Somewhere in the past, the smaller chamber had been converted into a bath, creating one large master suite.
Not every room had been renovated. Peeling wallpaper, hardwood floors in need of refinishing, and old kitchen cabinets with lopsided shelves were just a few of the problems she’d inherited. But the master suite with its rambling balcony and view of the creek had sold her.
That and the graves.
She followed a trail past the veranda and up an embankment to the rear of the property. The small graveyard—nothing more than a patch surrounded by a knee-high limestone wall—had been situated above flood levels in the event the creek should rise. Grass grew high and spiky at the edges of the stone, a sight that reminded her to invest in a weed trimmer.
Her gaze traveled over the tombstones—three tall, slender slabs dotted with lichen. Darrin had died first, passing in 1863, with Sylvia and their son, Nathaniel, passing fifteen years later. She found it odd they’d both died on the same day. Had there been a fire in the house? An accident?
Thoughts for later.
The air was growing heavy with the musty scent that bloomed around water when dusk settled. She loved the smell and quiet. The feel of a cool breeze wafting from the creek. A few bats flitted between trees and a mourning dove cooed from somewhere among the branches.
As much as she enjoyed being outside, it was time to tackle more boxes. Maybe later she’d relax on the balcony with a glass of wine and watch night settle. Alcohol didn’t mix well with meds, but she’d been off her pills long enough. She deserved the treat.
Warmed by the thought, she headed back toward the house. Her sense of serenity was squashed by the sight of a dead squirrel sprawled before the front door.
“Damn.” The animal had probably crawled up on the porch and died. Granted, it was an odd place for a wild creature to seek shelter in the waning moments of its life, but the area was infested with small rodents. Maybe the poor thing had tussled with a fox or a raccoon, although she didn’t see a mark on it.
Feeling queasy, she headed inside for a trash bag and plastic gloves. When it came time to put the small carcass in the sack, she averted her eyes. The little body was limp in her hand, still faintly warm through the thin layer of her gloves. She bundled the bag shut with a grimace.
The squirrel’s body had concealed a single word stenciled in capital letters on the door mat. One that might have been inviting under other circumstances, but now took on a sinister aura.
WELCOME
Madison glanced over her shoulder, the swiftly falling night unsettling. She sprinted across the driveway to the detached garage then dumped the bag in a trash can. Of course, no one was watching her, but it was hard to squash old fears.
How many women survived seeing their husband butchered with a knife? How many people could say they knew what it felt like to be murdered?
