It had occurred to her that she could have chosen anywhere. With no ties, she could have relocated to the west coast, soaked up the sun, learned to surf. Hell, she could have even jumped on a plane, travelled Europe. No, instead she’d subconsciously hovered around the outskirts of Mercy, never quite making that step to the one place she both loved and hated.
When she’d got word her great aunt Evelyn had passed away, she had grieved. Despite so much being left unsaid between them, she’d hurt regardless. Evelyn had been the last one, the last of her family; she really was on her own now.
There wasn’t always such an estrangement between them. When she was a child her Aunt Evie had always been so much fun; she’d loved going to visit her and her grandmother Alice. The sisters had always lived together in the Stick House on the lake. Her mother had taken her to visit every chance she could and they would swim in the lake. Nana Alice would always be baking cookies and Aunt Evie would be the one trekking through the woods with her, looking for herbs and flowers.
When her aunt’s lawyer had finally tracked her down in Providence, she’d been surprised to learn she’d inherited the Stick House. In fact, she’d opened her mouth with every intention of telling him to sell it, but that wasn’t what came out. In a kind of numb haze, she’d signed the papers and taken the keys. Then she’d packed up her banged up beloved Camaro and headed out. Unable to explain it, even to herself, she knew that the time had come. She had to face her past.
The closer she’d got to town, the worse the pull had become. Even now it throbbed deep in her chest, overruling the panic at the thought of being the subject of all the town’s gossip.
They wouldn’t see Olivia West, successful historian and author. No, all they would see was the daughter of a murderer. That was all anyone saw. It’s why she had bounced from foster family to group home and back again. After all, no one wanted to adopt the child of a killer.
It had been twenty years since that night. She didn’t think about it, or rather she didn’t let herself think about it. This was such a bad idea; she should’ve just told the lawyer to sell the house and be done with it. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. The Stick House had been in her family since it was built in 1895 and before that the original house had been occupied by a West, since the town was founded in 1704.
Damn her historian’s soul, she couldn’t bear to let her family history be passed on to a stranger. Maybe she could just become a recluse, barricade herself inside the house, get herself a couple of cats and order her groceries online.
She headed across town to the outskirts, until she hit the edge of the woods, then turned onto a dirt road. Despite the number of years which had passed everything looked so familiar that her heart clenched painfully. The last time she had been down this road she had been with her mother.
Swallowing hard against the deep ache in her throat, she blinked back the hot stinging in her eyes and focused on the road. The light was failing and although the rain had almost completely stopped, the wind had picked up. Even with the windows rolled up she could hear the roar of it through the trees, slow and ponderous like a freight train. And with every gust, a myriad of colored leaves broke upon her windshield like a wave, catching in the wipers.
Suddenly the canopy of trees parted and the house came into view. Cradled lovingly by the surrounding trees, the house tugged at her. She stopped the car and gazed at the familiar steep gabled roof and overhanging eaves.
It was a Queen Anne, built in the Stick style which had led to it being affectionately nicknamed by the locals as the Stick House.
The house stood on the site of its predecessor, a wooden framed house built by her ancestor Hester West and her sister Bridget, when they co-founded the town back in 1704.
The original West house was little more than a cabin and had nestled amidst the woods overlooking the lake, until it was damaged by fire in the late 1800’s. Unable to be salvaged they had pulled down the remains and built the Stick House in its place.
Local legend said that a West had lived on that land for the last three hundred years. Maybe that was why she found it so hard to let go or move on? She felt the bonds of blood, love, and hate, wrapped around her like vines, binding her to the land and to the house itself.
As she stepped out of the car and gazed up at the house the wind tugged and pulled at her, teasing her clothes and hair with sly spindly fingers. The hiss of the churned-up leaves sounded almost like the house itself was sighing, as if it had been waiting for her.
Grabbing her bags from the car, and the box of perishable food she’d brought from her apartment in Providence, she started slowly up the steps towards the wraparound porch.
She pressed her hand against the door and took a deep breath.
‘This is my house now’
The old porch swing to her right suddenly moved in the wind, creaking loudly as a small wave of leaves rustled across her feet in a mad tumble of yellow, red and gold. Feeling a prickle at the back of her neck and a heaviness settle between her shoulder blades, she turned around. Her gaze scanned the tree line, but nothing seemed to be out of place.
Her brow suddenly furrowed at the uneasiness that washed over her. It was funny, she’d never been afraid of the woods or the seclusion as a child. It had always been a place of magic to her. But now, standing on the porch looking out into the dying light, it felt as if she were being watched.
Shaking off her unease, she fumbled in her bag for the set of keys the lawyer had given her, and unlocked the door.
The air was still and silent as she stepped into the hallway. She could hear the shriek of the wind and the rustle of the leaves behind her, but the house was still, like it was holding its breath. The dust sheets hung like great shrouds across the furniture, twitching slightly in the errant breeze which had followed in her wake.
As she dropped her bags and the box onto the floor just inside the threshold, the door clicked quietly closed behind her, leaving her in the oppressive stillness.
She wandered slowly down the hall. Her heels clicked ominously against the parquet flooring as her fingertips lightly pulled the dust sheets from mirrors and framed pictures, letting them drift ghost-like to the floor, setting dust motes spinning madly in the dying light, like tiny fairies.
Reaching out she flicked at the light switch but nothing happened. She tried it a couple more times. Obviously, she would have to call the electric company. First thing tomorrow she realized with a groan, glancing down at her watch. It was later than she thought.
Making her way through to the kitchen she almost smiled at the dark cherry wood cabinets and worn rose colored walls. Some things never changed, no matter how many decades passed. Rummaging through the drawers she finally managed to locate a flashlight, but when she flicked it on it sputtered once or twice and went dead. Nana Alice had always griped at Aunt Evie for forgetting to change the batteries in things. Another quick search had revealed no spare batteries and the light was now all but gone.
Muttering under her breath, Olivia stumbled back through the rapidly darkening house towards the library. Opening the door, she felt a rush of recognition that gripped her by the throat in its familiarity. Despite the darkness the feel and smell of the room was so strong she almost expected her grandmother to be sitting in the worn high-backed chair by the window.
Wandering to the mantle over the fireplace, she reached blindly for the candlesticks her grandmother had always kept there, hoping her aunt hadn’t moved them.
A small smile curved her lips as her fingertips grazed the cool metal of the candlestick and traced upwards, along the smooth scented wax. Taking a deep breath Olivia blew slowly and deliberately at the wick, her breath warm. It burst cheerfully into flame, hiccupping and dancing merrily, bathing her face in its warm glow.
Olivia’s gaze slid to the opposite end of the mantle where the candlestick’s twin waited sedately. Once again Olivia drew in a breath, feeling the warmth and heat gathe
r in her throat as she blew gently against the wick. But this time she felt the heat radiate outwards, rippling like the surface of a still pond once a small pebble has breached the surface, and each candle carefully placed around the room ignited simultaneously, illuminating the room in a soft warm glow.
Holding her hand close to the flame as if she were coaxing a small skittish animal, she watched as the flame bobbed on the wick a couple of times before tipping onto her fingertips. It danced along her skin until the naked flame sat in her palm.
It didn’t burn, it just felt warm and a bit tingly. She studied the flame, her gaze tracing the fine threads of gold, red and orange that made up its substance, as the memory of her grandmother’s voice whispered at the edge of her mind.
‘Fire, little one, is the first skill learned and the last lost…’
The flame burst into life in her palm and Olivia smiled. Fortunately for her it was also her strongest skill. The power pulsed along her skin and the fiery threads wound down deep into her flesh, like the roots of an ancient tree, separate, but also very much a part of her. Dropping to her haunches she blew against the flames in her hand, watching them scatter across the fireplace in a rush of heat, igniting the dry logs and roaring to life.
Satisfied the fire had caught she stood and as she did her gaze caught on a silver framed picture of a familiar face.
Olivia sucked in a sharp and painful breath, feeling her heart pounding in her ears as she reached out to grasp the cool frame.
The night her mother had died she had been dragged away from Mercy and her home, with nothing but the clothes on her back. She didn’t even own a photograph of her mother. For the last twenty years, her mom had existed only in the memory of a traumatized eight-year-old child.
Tracing her shaky fingers across the glass, she gazed upon the face of her mother for the first time in twenty years and found her memory was a pale grey specter when compared to the real thing. Seeing her mom smile back at her through the lens of the camera, frozen in that one moment of time, caused a deep ache in her chest. She had been so young, so vibrant, and completely unaware of the violence and tragedy which awaited her.
Olivia tried to swallow past the hot hard lump burning at the back of her throat, but as she tore her gaze away, her eye caught her own reflection in the mirror and she realized for the first time, how much she looked like her mother. It was not just her long dark wavy hair or her whiskey colored eyes, but her face, the shape of her nose, the curve of her jaw. She was the spitting image of her mom. No wonder, she thought with a heavy heart, no wonder her great aunt hadn’t wanted her. She probably couldn’t bear to look at her.
The sudden wrench of grief drove her to her knees, her legs collapsing from under her as she clutched the picture to her chest and rocked back and forth. The tears came hot and fast, as she allowed herself to finally do the one thing she had held back since she drove into town. She curled into a tight ball of misery and wept bitterly.
She couldn’t say when she fell into an exhausted sleep, but her dreams were filled with flame and ash and dust. The house burned around her. She could hear it groan as timbers splintered and gave way. Her father’s face stood above her, cold and malicious as he clutched a knife in his hand, smeared with her mother’s blood. Turning away from that dreadful image she could see the crumpled form of her grandmother in the corner of the room, lying in a pool of blood, her dress on fire as she was consumed by the inferno.
The flames licked against her skin and she shivered. Her brow folded into a confused frown; the flames should have burned but instead they were cold. She shivered again and her breath was expelled from her mouth as a fine mist. Suddenly her body was wracked by a deep shudder and her eyes opened on a gasp.
It took her a moment to realize where she was. Unfolding her stiff limbs, she pulled herself up from the rug. The fire had now burned down to embers and all the candles in the room had gone out. Looking up into the dim light she realized the window was wide open, the curtain billowing ghostly white in the freezing night air.
Frowning to herself, she walked stiffly over to the window and leaned out. The cloud cover from the earlier storm had burned away, leaving the night air crisp, clear and freezing. The moon split the sky like a huge silver disc, reflecting upon the surface of the lake and bathing the surrounding forest with its ethereal light.
Shivering, she closed the window and flicked the lock. Strange, she thought to herself, she didn’t remember opening the window. Turning her back she felt the familiar prickle down her spine and she couldn’t shake the earlier feeling of being watched.
Convinced it was just the stress of being back in the house, being overtired from the emotional upheaval and the physical strain of the long drive, she moved back into the room. Her intention was to crawl into one of the beds upstairs, regardless of whether they had any sheets on or not, but she froze mid step.
The photo which had caused her so much grief, no longer lay upon the rug in front of the fireplace where she had left it, but instead rested once more upon the mantle, looking for all the world as if it had never been moved.
2.
You would be forgiven for thinking the Salted Bone had been transplanted straight across the Atlantic from Ireland. Never mind that it had stood, in some shape or form, in the very heart of Mercy for over three hundred years. It may have transformed from a barn to a rowdy tap room, then to a coach house, before finally morphing into its current incarnation of a traditional Irish pub, but one thing was for sure, if you asked any patron they would all tell you the same thing, that a Murphy had stood at the helm since the town’s founding.
Now Jackson Murphy may not have been born in Mercy, but his mother had been.
Alison Murphy had been a beautiful young thing, with hair the color of molasses and a light dusting of freckles. She and her brother Malachi had inherited the pub, after a tragic accident took their parents. Malachi had run the pub with love and contentment, while she had waited tables. That was until one stormy night in 1982, when the rain had blown in a young Irish backpacker by the name of Colin O’Grady.
A devilishly handsome young lad with Kerry blue eyes and midnight hair, a quick wit and even quicker smile, it was love at first sight for the fair Alison and the intrepid Colin. It had been quite the scandal when the young lovers lit out in the middle of the night, married under the bright lights of Vegas and settled back in Ireland, with Jackson born not six months after the ink was dry on the marriage license.
Malachi would not speak of his sister nor the shame she had brought upon his family. Yet when he had been diagnosed with cancer he had named his nephew the sole beneficiary to his estate, which included the pub, with only one condition. That Jackson changed his name to Murphy.
Malachi eventually met his maker and Jackson hopped across the pond, so to speak, with his father’s inky black hair, blue eyes and infectious smile. He ran the pub with the same ease and contentment his uncle had and once again life at the Salted Bone settled back into its usual routine.
It had been a quiet evening, unusually quiet. The air was crisp and the leaves tumbled restlessly, whispering to themselves on the cold October wind.
Jackson hummed quietly to himself while he dried another glass and stacked it with the rest. He could have said it was the bell above the door that had first alerted him to his newest patron, or simply his habit of watching the entrance, but the truth was he’d have known without looking when she’d walked in the door. There was an aura about her; the air almost seemed to crackle with electricity in her wake.
Oh yes, that one was a firecracker, he thought to himself.
His sharp blue eyes watched her scan the room curiously, before landing on him. A wary smile graced her lips as she casually wandered over and slid onto a stool at the end of the bar.
‘Evening darlin’,’ his mouth curved into his trademark smile. ‘What can I get you this fine autumn eve?’
‘A beer please,’ she replied
, charmed by his lilting west country brogue. ‘Whatever you’ve got on tap will be fine.’
‘A woman after me own heart.’
‘With a smile like that, I imagine you have half the women in town after your heart.’
‘Oh darlin’, if only that were true,’ he grinned, ‘but it’s not usually me heart they’re after.’
‘I’ll bet,’ she laughed.
‘You new in town then?’ he passed her glass across the scarred wood bar. ‘Visiting or just passing through?’
‘Neither,’ she shook her head. ‘I just moved back. I live up at the Stick House.’
‘Ah,’ he nodded in recognition, ‘so you’d be a West then?’
‘Olivia’ she smiled, offering her hand.
‘Jackson Murphy.’ He shook it, then resumed wiping down glasses. ‘I was very fond of your Evelyn West. She’d come in every Sunday for a pot roast and a Guinness.’
‘My great aunt,’ Olivia confirmed.
‘She and our own Owen rubbed along famously.’
‘Owen?’
‘Ah beggin’ your pardon, of course you wouldn’t know who Owen is,’ he apologized. ‘Owen is our cook. A great brute of a man, given to fits of temper, but he cooks like a dream so we make allowances for his poor social graces. He and Evie got on like a barn on fire. They often traded recipes and such like.’
‘So the food here is good?’ Olivia picked up a menu and scanned down the list.
‘It is,’ Jackson smiled charmingly, ‘if I do say so myself. Do you have an appetite then Olivia?’
‘I do,’ Olivia grinned back. ‘There’s very little that’s edible up at the Stick House, other than cereal and coffee, and I’m still working my way up to going grocery shopping.’
‘Well then if I might, Owen’s beef stew is enough to make a grown man weep with gratitude. It sticks to the ribs and has a fine flavor. Just the thing for a chilly October eve.’
‘Sold,’ Olivia laughed. ‘Anything I haven’t had to cook is a winner as far as I’m concerned.’
The Guardians Complete Series 1 Box Set: Contains Mercy, The Ferryman, Crossroads, Witchfinder, Infernum Page 2
