The Starfish Talisman
Lark Griffing
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Did you enjoy The Starfish Talisman?
Acknowledgments
Also by Lark Griffing
The Last Time I Checked, I Was Still Here
About the Author
Copyright © 2018 by Lark Griffing
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously
* * *
ISBN-10: 10: 0-9988719-3-1
ISBN-13: 978-0-9988719-3-6
* * *
Edited by Wing Family Editing
This book is for my mother,
who saw the wolves under the
dining room table.
Chapter 1
Reagan sat in the back seat of her mother’s car staring out the window. She hadn’t spoken more than two sentences to her mom in two days, and she wasn’t going to sit up front riding shotgun with her, either. If her mom was going to be a traitor, dumping her only daughter at an aunt’s house for the summer, an aunt she didn’t even know, then this daughter wasn’t going to make it any easier on the mom in question. This whole situation was unfair and completely unacceptable. How could her mother expect her to be happy about this? Nope, Mom was going to suffer.
“Reagan, how long are you going to keep this up?” asked her mother, Becky. “I can’t help this situation. I need to travel for work. You can’t come, and you can’t stay by yourself, so this is the best solution. I’m just grateful that your aunt is willing to take you in. I haven’t spoken to your father’s sister in years.”
“Exactly,” Reagan burst out loudly, forgetting her vow of silence. “I don’t know this woman. You don’t know this woman, but you are dumping me there without a clue. The woman could be a serial killer.”
“Don’t be silly. Women aren’t serial killers. Honey, it’s not like she’s a stranger. We fell out of touch, but your father loved her dearly.”
“Okay, Daddy loved her. Daddy loved everybody and everything. Hell, he probably would have loved his sister even if she was a serial killer.”
“You’re right, he would have, and don’t say ‘hell’,” scolded her mom.
Reagan resisted the urge to scream “hell, hell, hell” at the top of her lungs. She was miserable, but this really wasn’t making her feel any better. Sighing, she slithered over the back of the front seat so that she could land next to her mother on the passenger side, a move she had perfected on those rides home from school with her friends.
“What the hell are you doing?” her mother squealed protecting the steering wheel from Reagan’s left foot. “Are you trying to get us killed?”
“At least we’d be together, and don’t say ‘hell’,” quipped her still pouting daughter.
“Don’t be morbid, dear,” said Becky as she turned and gave her daughter a half smile. At least her daughter was talking to her. She would take it even if it was macabre.
“I don’t even know this aunt, and who the hell, heck names their kid Willow?” asked Reagan, shaking her head in wonderment.
“The same people who named your father Wolf. Seriously, you knew your grandparents were the original hippies. We’ve told you that.”
“I know you said that, but I never met my grandparents, and I don’t know this Willow-chick, either. Does she do drugs?”
“No, for heaven’s sake, she does not do drugs,” said Becky, but she did look worried for a second. “She’s an adult and an artist who supports herself and doesn’t do drugs or anything.”
Reagan looked at her mom, reading the worry lines on her forehead.
“Well, she probably only smokes weed, so that’d be okay,” said Reagan, waiting a beat for the light slap upside the head that she figured would come from her mom. Becky tousled Reagan’s hair and sighed.
“I am really sorry, honey. I know you don’t want to do this. Neither do I, but I don’t have a choice. We need to live. They said I’d be gone for three months, tops. I told them that wasn’t good enough, that I’d need to be home in time to take you home for school, and they agreed. I’m sorry. It’s my job, and the way we survive, so I have to do what I’ve got to do. You understand, don’t you?”
Reagan nodded her head. She really did understand. It was just the two of them, and her mom worked hard to make ends meet. They weren’t poor, but they weren’t rolling in the dough. Her mom had made a lot of sacrifices for Reagan, so it was Reagan’s turn to suck it up.
“I understand, and I will try to stay positive. I’m not happy about it, and I’m not going to lie. This is the summer before my senior year. I will miss all that time with my friends.”
“I know, but on the other hand, Kaylee is going to be living and working at Cedar Point all summer, and didn’t you tell me that Bonnie is going to spend the summer with her father in Florida? That leaves Gail. Didn’t she just get a job?”
Reagan nodded, sighing. Her mom didn’t even need to ask the question. Reagan had been moaning about those very things only two weeks before. Still, she would have been able to see them some of the time. She could have gone to Cedar Point, and Gail wasn’t going to work 24/7. Now, she was going to be stuck in some stupid small town on the coast of Maine, in some stupid house, with her stupid aunt, with the stupid name of Willow. It was all just … stupid.
Chapter 2
I think this is the right address,” Becky said, peering at the faded numbers on the mailbox post. The box was at the end of a long, curving gravel drive that disappeared into a hall of trees, their boughs meeting each other over the lane shrouding it in a dappled green dusk.
“Up that? I don’t see a house or anything. This dirt road just disappears into the woods. In fact, I haven’t seen any houses, or McDonald’s or Starbucks, or Taco Bell, or a freaking mall. Mom? What the hell, shoot, heck?”
“You are going to owe me money. Do I have to start the swear jar again?”
“Sure. If you remember correctly, the last time you ended up paying me,” retorted Reagan good-naturedly. She wasn’t happy about her current situation, though. What was she going to do all summer? “Mom, do you think there’s WiFi, or a library, or something?” Reagan asked nervously.
“I’m sure there is. It’s not like you’re on another planet. It’ll be fine. I’m sure it will.” Reagan glanced at her mom fully aware that it sounded like her mom was not only trying to convince her, but she was working on convincing herself.
Becky turned the car up the lane, driving under the bower of trees. The car bumped along the pockmarked road, dust rising behind it in clouds. The road curved several times before it exited the
trees. Both Becky and her daughter gasped in surprise. The lane ran along the edge of a cliff, the ocean spread out to the east below the drop off. At the end of the lane, on the edge of the cliff, perched an enormous house, sadly in need of paint, with a wide front porch and an abundance of mullioned windows. Riotous colors splashed the flower beds in front of the porch, unconventional, with no rhyme or reason to the design.
“Wow,” said Reagan, “I’m glad you told me Aunt Willow is a potter and not a painter.”
“Why’s that?” Becky asked, still staring at the house in awe.
“Because the paint job on that house sucks!” exclaimed Reagan. Becky sighed as she continued up the driveway, passing the house on her left and pulling into a gravel pad in front of a large faded barn. She parked next to an old minivan with a Tide Pool Pottery logo on the driver’s side door.
“Well, I guess this is it. We’re here. It looks like your aunt has plenty of room for you. It’s not like you’ll be cramped,” Reagan’s mom announced with forced cheerfulness. Reagan just rolled her eyes and opened the car door to step out. An explosion of barking caused her to snatch her foot back in to the car, slamming the door. She peered out the window to see a yellow Lab streaking toward the car, ears flapping, mouth open, teeth glinting, baying loudly at them. Reagan and her mom looked at each other.
“I’m not moving,” said Reagan, eyeing the big dog planted outside her door.
“I second that,” said Becky, trying to figure out what to do next without looking terrified and not in control. A figure emerged from the barn.
“Wiley, out.” Immediately, the dog sat, panting a happy smile. The figure gestured for Reagan and her mom to open the door. Reagan shook her head ‘no’. Sighing, the figure moved toward the car, whistling for the dog to come. Wiley trotted to his master’s side and sat, looking like a happy clown and not the killer he resembled moments ago.
“Come on, let’s do this,” said Becky. Reagan hesitated, then opened the door and stepped out. “Willow? It’s been a very long time.” Becky moved toward the woman with the dog. Reagan held back, watching the exchange.
“Hello, Becky.” The woman’s raspy voice was strong and commanding. “Come here, girl. I could pick you out as Wolf’s daughter anywhere. Well, come on, Wiley won’t hurt you. Go say hello, Wiley.” The dog obediently walked to Reagan, sat, and offered a paw. Reagan laughed despite her remaining fear. “Well, pet him. Let him know you like him.” Reagan hesitantly stretched out a hand. The dog tensed. Becky tensed. Reagan almost dropped her hand, but instead reached for the dog’s soft ears. She rubbed gently behind his right ear. Wiley moaned and leaned hard into her hand, insisting on a hardy rub.
“Well, that worked out all right. Wiley thinks you’re okay. Why don’t you take your things into the house? I have to finish something in the barn. If I stop now, it’ll be ruined. I’ll join you in just a few minutes.” Reagan and Becky looked at each other a little uncomfortably. They both felt weird just going into a stranger’s house. “Don’t be silly, Reagan, you’re going to live here all summer, so you might as well make yourself at home. Just go on in. Pick yourself a bedroom upstairs on the third floor. Any bedroom will be fine. There are sheets for the beds in the dressers in each room. Take your pick. Just stay off the fourth floor. You have no need to go up there. Besides, it isn’t safe. Becky, are you staying the night? If so, grab yourself a bedroom and make yourself at home. I’ll be in a bit.” With that, Willow spun on her heels and disappeared back in the barn. Wiley watched her leave but decided to stick with Reagan.
“Okay, that was creepy,” said Reagan.
“Don’t overreact. Your aunt has been living alone for a lot of years. Her social skills are a bit rusty that’s all. Let’s grab your stuff out of the trunk.” They each grabbed two suitcases, and Reagan shouldered her backpack as they started toward the house, Wiley trotting happily behind them.
“Mom, what did Aunt Willow mean when she said the fourth floor is dangerous?” asked Reagan as she peered at the house, looking intently at the row of windows on the fourth floor.
“My guess is that some of the house might be in disrepair. She just doesn’t want you getting hurt in an area of the house she doesn’t use. That’s all I can figure.” Reagan nodded, thinking it made sense. She glanced up again at the old house and was surprised to see a face peering out of the middle fourth floor window. She squinted against the sun and looked more closely. No, there was nothing there. She laughed at herself. Her imagination was running wild.
Chapter 3
Reagan and her mom mounted the steps to the wide front porch. A swing hung at the far end, and there were four white rocking chairs lined up the length of the porch. Becky sighed at the sight of them.
“I could sit down in one of those chairs and stay a lifetime,” she said.
“Why don’t you, Mom?” teased Reagan.
“You know I don’t want to leave you, but I don’t know what else to do,” said Becky, exasperated.
“I know. I’m sorry. I was just teasing, but I do see myself planted in a rocking chair a lot this summer or curled up on that porch swing with a good book or ten.” All of a sudden, the summer didn’t look so bad. What could be wrong with spending the summer reading on a porch of an old creepy house on the ocean cliffs in Maine? Determined to have a better attitude, Reagan opened the old screen door and stepped into the past.
They entered a central hall which was on the second floor of the house, the half-subterranean first floor a flight below. An open stairwell wound up and up, past the third floor to the fourth which disappeared in a dusty darkness. On the left, just past the first step, was what looked like a parlor or sitting room. To the right of the open hall was a room that looked like it might be an office. Straight ahead, the hall opened into a grand dining room with a table that seated fourteen guests. Large built in buffets and china cabinets flanked the walls. Straight through to the back, they caught a glimpse of a giant kitchen, the doors propped open to allow access. Wiley shot past them, his nails clicking on the gleaming hardwood. He entered the tiled kitchen floor where they could hear his noisy lapping as he watered his thirst.
They were still taking in his surroundings as Wiley made his way back to them, his jowls running with water, dripping on the polished floor. Becky’s mom whistled a low tone.
“Wow, this place is amazing. Your dad always said that the homestead was a blast from the past, but this is incredible. The antiques in here must be worth a fortune.”
“The outside of the house really doesn’t tell the tale of the inside, does it, Mom? I feel like I’m going to be living in a museum or something. Is there any place to kick back and put your feet up? Everything is so formal. I mean, I just met Aunt Willow, but she doesn’t look like the type to live in a place like this.”
“Maybe there is another room that is more relaxing,” said Becky. “Let’s go settle you into a bedroom.”
They picked up the bags and started up the stairs. Wiley bounded ahead of them, leading the way. When they reached the third floor, they could turn to the left, the right, or drop down a step and go straight down a narrow hall. This was the only hall with a door that could close.
“That part of the house looks different from this part. I think that might have been the servants’ quarters.”
“That’s crazy,” said Reagan. “Can we check it out?”
“I don’t see why not.”
They left the suitcases in the main hall and stepped down the single step into the narrow passage in front of them. On either side of the hall were small bedrooms. Many of them were barren, but several had small beds and a wash stand. At the very end of the hall was a narrow steep staircase that led downstairs.
On the right, before the staircase, was a bedroom fitted with a simple bed, a modern dresser, and a TV mounted on the wall. The bedspread was an Indian batik print, and the windows had shutters instead of curtains that could open or shut tight. There were a set of shelves that held several pie
ces of exquisite pottery.
“I think this might be your Aunt Willow’s room. I feel like we’re intruding. Come on.”
They made their way back down the narrow hall to the wide open main hall in the front of the house. It was so much cheerier here, with white wainscoting and gleaming, polished bannisters. They grabbed the luggage and started looking through the rooms, feeling a bit like interlopers.
The first door they opened revealed a room that had two windows and faced the south side of the house. It had a twin bed and was decorated in light greens and yellows. Wiley walked in and stuck his wet nose to the window, looking out over his property. It was a cheery room, but Reagan moved on.
The second room was painted navy blue with white woodwork. A dark maple bedroom set furnished the space. A model of a racing sailboat graced a high shelf over the bed. Becky wondered aloud if it was Wolf’s old room. As she looked around the room that may have once belonged to her husband, Wiley came in and flopped down on the braided rug in the middle of the floor. His tail thumped happily as Reagan gave his ears a couple of good scratches while she waited patiently for her mom to examine the other knick-knacks on the shelf.
The third room had rose and white wallpaper and a white chenille bedspread which covered an old-fashioned white iron bed. Despite the beautiful appointments, the room had a gloomy chill to it. Wiley stood out in the hall and whined, refusing to come in.
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