The Box in The Cuts: A Supernatural Mystery

by Debra Castaneda

  A gust of wind sends the temperature dropping. Madison shivers. “How am I supposed to know what was going through that crazy mind of hers? That was the carriage house. They used to keep the horses and carriages there. We got a grant to fix it up, but the work stopped because of the most stupid reason. The construction crew refused to come back because they said they saw a ghost.”

  I stare at her. “I thought you said this place wasn't haunted. That it was a bunch of bullshit.”

  Madison throws up her hands. “Well, I don't think it's haunted. It's ridiculous. But that doesn't stop other people from believing whatever they want to.”

  “So there are stories? Stories about this place being haunted?”

  Another maddening shrug. “Yeah. Sure. We're even going to do some after dark candlelight tours. Like the ones they have at the Winchester Mystery House down in San Jose.”

  The Wirth Mansion looms over Madison's shoulder. The three arches that frame the entryway are filled with shadows, even at this hour. It's obvious I need to do some research of my own into the place, but just the idea makes my fingers turn cold as they clutch the steering wheel.

  Chapter 31

  After Mary’s bizarre behavior at the Wirth Mansion, my worry shifts to Destiny. But she doesn’t answer my texts or calls. Now she's blowing off Chloe and Madison, so there's no choice but to check on her in person.

  Faith answers the door, dressed for ballet practice. “Like my new catsuit?” she says, twirling around in a spandex onesie. I have no idea if she can dance, but she looks like a ballerina: long neck, long arms and legs, thin.

  Mrs. Lawrence gives me a quick hug and grabs her purse. She sells luxury homes and always seems to be running out the door.

  “Is Destiny home?” I ask.

  “She is,” Mrs. Lawrence says briskly. “Moping around as usual. My sister is using my office downstairs while I’m out, so don’t worry. You aren’t alone.”

  “Destiny’s room stinks, I'm just warning you,” Faith says, slamming the door behind them.

  I knock on the door at the end of the hall, the one that used to belong to Faith before Destiny decided she didn't want to look at the Wirth Mansion anymore.

  Inside, my friend is sitting on the floor, legs crossed, in a meditation pose. Her thick blonde hair is swept up in a messy bun. She looks at me and sighs heavily. “Maybe I didn't answer because I wanted to be alone.”

  “Maybe you should have answered because we're worried about you. You know, since...”

  “Since I sparked like the Fourth of July?”

  I sink down next to her and sniff. There's a powerful scent in the air that's making my eyes sting.

  “Yeah. That and half the time it’s like you're there, but not there. So, I'm thinking something is going on that you're not telling me. What's that smell?”

  “Sage. And frankincense. Or maybe it's mugwort. I forget.”

  “Since when did you start meditating?”

  Destiny purses her lips. While I'm waiting for her to respond, I notice that the top of her dresser is covered in stuff. I get up and take a closer look. There are acorns, bundles of herbs, candles of different sizes, a couple of shells, a gold incense holder shaped like a hand and a bunch of crystals.

  My mind is racing. “What's all this?”

  Destiny stares down at her hands. “My altar.” When she was alive, my great grandmother had a small altar in her house. On it were little statues of Catholic saints, a few candles, and fresh flowers.

  “Are you into religion all of a sudden?” As far as I know, Destiny has never stepped foot inside a church. Her mom once shocked my mother by saying she had no idea if God exists and didn't see the point in going to church.

  Destiny lifts her chin. “I'm interested in the spiritual.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Destiny shrugs. “You know.” She hesitates. “Basic witchcraft."

  I stare at her. Then laugh. “You're kidding. You? You couldn't even watch Hocus Pocus because you said it was too scary.”

  Destiny sniffs. “I'm seventeen, Samantha. Not eight. And yes. I've decided it's time to take control of my life and unleash my authentic self. And those are things I can do by embracing my inner witch.”

  “Your inner witch? Where are you getting all this from?”

  “Books. Some online classes. Witchcraft 101 and Intermediate Witchcraft for Young Adults.”

  I can hardly believe what I'm hearing, but Destiny is serious. “So that's what all this crap is for?” I ask, pointing to the dresser. “Why am I just finding out about this?”

  “It's not crap, Samantha," Destiny says, rising to her feet. “Everything has a specific purpose. The herbs are for my grounding work and raising energy. And the reason I didn't tell you was because I knew you'd be judgmental, and it looks like I was right because that's what you're doing now. Judging me.”

  I take a deep calming breath. Sounding like Madison isn’t going to get me anywhere. “I'm sorry, Destiny. Really. I'm just surprised, that's all. Give me a chance to catch up, okay. Can we start over?”

  Destiny nods. We make ourselves comfortable on her bed. At first, she's reluctant to explain, but eventually opens up. She explains how she'd been feeling like something was missing in her life, wondering why she didn't have the same confidence her mother and her sister have. How she ate too much because she was trying to fill a big, empty hole. How she hated the way other girls made fun of her and her weight. How witchcraft provides a protected space for women, focused on self-care and healing rituals. She'd even begun a monthly subscription for a “mystic box” filled with everything she needs to practice her new craft.

  “What about these?” I ask, picking up two crystals. One is black, the other is a dark silvery gold.

  Destiny frowns, shakes her hair loose and combs her fingers through it. “Onyx and pyrite.”

  “What are they for?”

  But she changes the subject. “I came up with my own spell to ward off sparking and it seems to be working. So far. I haven’t sparked again since that day at school.”

  “Can we talk about what's up with you and the Wirth Mansion?” I ask as we walk into the living room. “Like, why you needed to switch rooms over it?”

  Destiny sighs. “I've always hated the place. Ever since that stupid tour in fourth grade. And then someone down there had the brilliant idea of lighting it up at night, so every time I look outside, there it is. Madison says they did it because they’re going to start doing night tours.” A simple enough explanation. Even I can sympathize. I wouldn’t want to look out at that thing every night either.

  “Guess where we're going to have the senior Halloween dance?” I say as I open the front door to leave.

  Destiny hands me my jacket. “School auditorium like always?”

  I shake my head. “Not anymore, thanks to Alfie and Madison. The Wirth Mansion.”

  Destiny sags against the door. “That's a really, really bad idea,” she finally says. But when I ask her why she bites her lip, shakes her head, and refuses to explain.

  Chapter 32

  Marguerite: Hillside, 1868

  It has been a week of excitement, ending in the most shocking manner.

  It all began the morning after David Wirth's arrival at the house.

  He made it his habit to follow me around while I did my chores, asking me questions, helping me to carry things. All the while staring at me with his serious brown eyes.

  My life is a great fascination to him.

  “But how did you come to be a maid?” he asked, as if it were the most improbable thing in the world.

  Of course, I did not dare tell him the truth. I hoped and prayed he would not think to ask William, of all people, as it is generally known William brought me to the mansion.

  I gave David the following account of myself: my birthplace was Paris, I was orphaned as a child, born to minor nobility, and sold into servitude by a greedy, unscrupulous uncle.

  Every time I was
forced to repeat this tale to David, I added a little here, a little there, until he finally said, “For an uncle to treat his own niece with such heartless cruelty! How you have suffered!”

  When Mrs. A. noticed the state of things between us, she was most alarmed. She took me to her room, shut the door and scolded me.

  “But Mrs. Arundel!” I protested. “I do nothing to encourage him. Nothing! I cannot help if he insists on following me in his very own house!”

  Later, when still she persisted, I threw down my dust rag and rose to my full height. “Now Mrs. Arundel. I am but a servant here and I am subject to all the schemes and passions of the men who sleep beneath this roof, as you have witnessed yourself. I am not sure what you would have me do.”

  I am quite proud of this little speech. It silenced the woman for even she acknowledged the truth of it.

  With every passing day, David's attachment to me grew.

  One wet, rainy afternoon, he stopped me in the veranda and asked me to remove my cap. At first, I hesitated. There was no telling if Mrs. A. or his mother might suddenly appear. But the hallways on either side were quiet. I nodded, then slowly removed my cap.

  My long hair tumbled down my back. It was freshly washed, so it was at its best, its most luxurious. He walked toward me as if in a dream, then raised a lock of my hair to his nose and closed his eyes. It was another stroke of luck that I had rinsed my hair in a concoction of lavender and orange blossoms the night before.

  I hardly know how to explain everything that followed.

  David began to pass me notes, expressing his admiration. He squeezed my hand in secret whenever he dared. He snipped a lock of my hair and slipped it into his pocket. And then on an afternoon when Mrs. Wirth was away making calls, David summoned me to his study. Mrs. A. was attending to a matter in the new carriage house, so he was free to act boldly.

  I expected a kiss, an embrace. Instead he pointed to a beautiful gown draped over a chair.

  “Put it on,” he said. Then, like the gentleman that he is, he left the room.

  It was made of rich velvet, a deep blue trimmed with gold flounces. Somehow, it was the perfect fit. The fabric caressed my skin, set off my golden hair. The skirt reached to my feet. I wished I had pretty shoes with spool heels instead of ugly boots with buttons. But this was of no matter, because I was twirling around when David knocked and walked in.

  He stopped, his mouth dropping open. Then he took me into his arms.

  After that, it was hard to stay out of them.

  William soon noticed David's constant attentions. William took to sneaking around, spying upon us. He was suspicious, jealous.

  When he caught me alone in the garden, picking flowers, he pulled me into the washroom and threw me against a wall. He unbuckled his belt, lowered his pants, all the while tearing at my skirt.

  “You...promised!” he said into my ear.

  “Don't do this, William! Please!” I begged him, as frantic as I have ever been in my life.

  But he would not listen. “You have made me wait too long,” he said. “And I will have you before he does. I will take what is my due.”

  I screamed. I screamed as loud as I could and the beak-nosed maid came running, then Mrs. A. arrived not long after.

  Unseen hands dragged him away, cursing me.

  When I am questioned by Mrs. A. and then by Mrs. Wirth, I collapsed to the floor. “He tried to force me,” I cried.

  I could see that Mrs. A. looked ready to slap me, despite my torn clothes. Mrs. Wirth said she did not believe William was capable of such an unmanly act, that I had enticed him to it. This was uttered in that way of hers, as if she could see straight through me with her dark, piercing eyes.

  “You are dismissed!” she announced.

  I cried. I begged and pleaded. Still, they would not listen.

  But it was not to be. David soon learned of William’s foul act and his mother’s heartless treatment of me, an innocent and defenseless servant. David took matters into his own hands. He spoke with his father. Mr. Wirth ordered William to leave immediately, never to set foot again on the property.

  Of course, Mrs. Wirth had conniption fits. While she was resting after her fainting spell, David slipped into my room. I set aside my paper and pen to properly show him my gratitude.

  Chapter 33

  It's Friday night and I'm stuck at home with my mother. My dad’s out playing poker with friends a couple blocks over. A big storm is expected. It’s pretty much all the TV weather people can talk about. My mom is watching the news nonstop.

  The doorbell rings. It’s Gabe. I’m so shocked to see him that I don’t hear my mother walk up behind me.

  He smiles at me, then holds out his hand to my mother. “Hi, Mrs. Reyes. Do you remember me? Gabe DeSilva?” He’s as polite as he is cute.

  She gives a little squeal, then pulls him inside, out of the wind. Then she throws her arms around him, talks about Nicole, asks about his parents, and as Gabe stands there in our family room—clutching a paper bag—she begins to look confused. I can practically see the questions forming on her face. Why is he here? Are they friends? What's going on?

  “I brought something for Samantha,” Gabe finally says.

  “How nice,” she says, shooting me a dark look before leaving.

  Gabe gives me three books about getting into college. Which is so nice I nearly start crying.

  When he asks what’s wrong, I just shake my head. Madison's parents took her to visit universities over the summer. Destiny traveled to Maine where she wants to study environmental science. Chloe and her parents toured design schools in Los Angeles. But nothing like that happened for me. According to my mother, I will live at home and go to a local college. She doesn't care which one.

  Gabe is giving me a hug when my mother walks back in. She reacts as dramatically as if we are doing it right there in the living room. She pulls it together, but Gabe sees right through her act, says goodbye to my mother and gives me the “I'll call you” sign. Then he leaves.

  My mother explodes. “How long have been sneaking around with him?” she shouts.

  I’m too angry to say anything. This makes her even angrier. She wants to know why I kept our relationship a secret. He’s wrong for me because he's older, more experienced and a player. She can tell just by looking at him. He will take advantage of me. Why else would he be interested in a high school girl?

  “Mom! He's not even two years older than I am!”

  As if that wasn’t enough drama, she calls my father and complains some more.

  When Gabe calls to make sure everything is okay, she tries to grab my phone and the next thing I know we are practically wrestling over it. I escape to my room and lock the door. If it were any other night, I’d grab my keys and leave. Go stay with one of my friends. But I'm not going anywhere. Neither is anyone who has half a brain. The wind is howling outside, the power is going on and off.

  After pacing in my room for a while I decide it’s finally time to face her. But she just starts up again. We're arguing over whether she can ground me—at my age—when there's a thundering crash at the front of the house. We throw open the front door and see an enormous tree branch sitting at the bottom of our driveway. Daniel comes running out along with his dog Buddy.

  “Whoa! That could have killed someone,” he says. Even Buddy manages to look surprised.

  Neighbors are now gathered, hair blowing in the wind, staring down at the massive branch.

  Daniel offers to get a chainsaw and bust it up, but our next-door neighbor, a lawyer, shakes his head. “Best let it sit there,” he says. “The weather is about to get worse. I just got an alert from the county.”

  Daniel looks disappointed, but nods. People scurry back to their houses.

  “Come over later if you want to hang out,” he says to me.

  “That's sweet,” my mother replies before I can say anything. “But we're having a girl's night.” And then she hustles me back into the house.

&n
bsp; As soon as the door is shut, I say, “Mom, how long are you going to keep doing this? Trying to control my life?”

  She slides the dead bolt into place and moves me aside without meeting my eyes. “I have no idea what you're talking about, Samantha. I'm doing my best for you but that never seems to be enough. When I see you making a mistake, it's my job to make sure you don't get yourself into trouble. You're too gullible, that's the problem with you. You'll fall for anything these guys tell you.”

  This little speech makes my head want to explode. Makes we want to scream, throw things. Instead, I say, “I am not stupid, and I do not need your help.”

  She gives me a withering look. “As long as you are living under my roof, Samantha, you will follow my rules, and don't you forget it.”

  Each of us retreats to our corner of the house. Me to my bedroom, my mother to the closet where we keep the cleaning supplies. When my mother is upset, she cleans. When she's upset and angry, she makes the maximum noise possible. She begins vacuuming the hallways, bashing the machine against the walls. Then she cleans the bathroom next to my bedroom. I can hear her scrubbing the bathtub, mopping the floor.

  It's getting harder to hear her because the storm is finally here, and rain is splattering against the windows. Then the thunder begins. At first, it's just long low rumbles, but then it turns into ear-splitting cracks directly over the house. I wish my dad was home. I wish my mother wasn’t pissed off so we could hide under a blanket together. And dinner would be nice.

  Finally, my empty stomach forces me out. My mother is in the family room, watching the TV news.

  “I'm going to make something,” I say. “Want anything special?”

  My mother continues staring straight ahead.

  “Mom? Do you want anything to eat?”

  No response. It's like I'm not even there. “Okay. I'll make extra of whatever.”

  While the storm continues to rage outside, I make fideo because it's fast and easy and we have the ingredients: the skinny noodles, tomato sauce, an onion, some ground beef. My dad calls it “Mexican spaghetti” and when I take my mother a bowl, she shakes her head. I go back to the kitchen, add her serving to the leftovers and stick the container in the refrigerator. I take my bowl into the family room and join her on the couch. She continues to ignore me.