Beautifully Broken

by Sherry Soule

  “Stop right there! Don’t say something you’ll regret.” Jillian’s tone was harsher than winter.

  The room quieted. Only sounds of their harsh breathing.

  Dad rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Okay, granted, I’m not thrilled that she’s dating Trent either, but it’s a summer romance that will fizzle out by September when school starts again. I’m more worried about if she finds—”

  “She won’t. She doesn’t even realize her potential.”

  “Potential? That witch nonsense again?”

  “Your mother is a respected shaman, so why is it so hard to believe that my family has—”

  “Not that again!” Dad sagged unto a chair, dropping his face into his hands. “All the lies. Shiloh will never forgive us.”

  “Is that why you’re worried? Huh?” Jillian’s mouth twisted into a pucker of disgust.

  “I just don’t think—”

  “That’s your problem, you don’t think.” She laughed. It sounded unpleasant, almost a sneer, and crawled up the back of my neck. Her tone changed glacial cold. “Like flirting with my sister at the party and trying to make me jealous. Please.”

  He lifted his head and rubbed his chin. “Jillian, you and I, we...uh…” he stumbled on his words and ended with, “Perhaps we made a mistake.”

  God, my family’s dysfunctional. Listening to them quarrel sickened my stomach.

  “It’s a little late.” Her face contorted, becoming ominous and cruel. “We must live with our choices. We need to tell her the truth.”

  “No,” Dad said in a softer tone. “We should wait.”

  Jillian’s smile was cool. Her hazel eyes unblinking. “Why do you think we can’t tell her? Because the deception is getting tiresome. She’s going to figure it out eventually. And don’t you dare look at me like that.”

  “I don’t care! This is your fault, Jillian. If you hadn’t—”

  “Sure, blame me, if it makes it easier for you to sleep at night, Jackson.” Jillian’s aura thrashed. “Why do we always have the same damn argument?”

  Dad threw his hands up. “You tell me.” He leaned back, tilting his head. “Did my flirting with your sister thaw that cold heart of yours, Jillian?”

  She didn’t reply. He stood and touched her arm. She flinched. Spots of color stained her cheeks. She moved away, shoulders erect, and raised the wine glass that sat on the counter. Her eyes turned from hazel to dark brown to black in an instant. Her expression arctic. She took a sip, the wine staining her lips blood red. I mentally cringed and recalled the other times I’d seen that same look overtake her features.

  Dad rubbed his face, his inflection rough with anxiety. “I need time to figure this out. At least her job is ending tomorrow.”

  After a moment, she nodded. “Fine, but don’t wait long.”

  I sensed a deep understanding between them and I also knew it was more than that. They shared a secret. A dark secret.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  On Monday, I decided to head to work early to avoid my parents. It was my last day at work, and the fog purled like an evil miasma from the underworld. Judd supervised the last bit of construction, working his crews with disciplined patience and I was struck by the military-like organization of it all. By three o’clock, the men were packing their equipment and cleaning up the leftover debris. Once the last truck exited the estate, I went to sit in the library and do some reading. Evans entered and sat on the sofa across from me. He was dressed casually in a polo shirt, tan cotton pants, with loafers.

  “Studying?”

  “Like a good girl.” I held up the book. “See? Witchcraft, Magick and Alchemy. Trying to find a spell to figure out why undead Claire is still hanging around.” Crossing my bare legs, I smoothed my crochet halter-top and tugged at the hem of my shorts. Ah, Indian summer was here. Warmer weather had finally arrived. “Do I get a gold star?”

  “No,” he said and smiled. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m glad the remodeling portion of this job has ended. I know we didn’t have a lot of time to go over cleansing haunted houses in your studies. We shall remedy that. There is still work to do here. Maybe someday we’ll discover the secrets of this odd house, eh?” He rubbed a hand over his face. “You were a clever and learned student. You’ll make a fine architect someday and I’d be pleased to write you a letter of recommendation for your college applications…I suppose ghost hunting is not in your future?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  We smiled comfortably at each other.

  Evans scratched his head. “I have another remodeling job for the next three weeks in Castro Valley that I cannot get out of now, and I don’t want you to face Esael alone. Promise me one thing…I want you to wait until the next full moon so we can face him together. I’ve done enough a research in these old books of mine to at least give us some insight on how to return him to the underworld. We can resume your training after school starts, since it looks like I’ll be living at Ravenhurst while Maxwell is traveling aboard.” He stood and walked toward the door where he paused to gaze at me from the doorway. “I’m off to dinner with friends. Are you staying?”

  I walked him to the door. “Yep. Gonna wait for Trent to come home.”

  “All right then, I’ll see you in a week or so,” he said, then got into his Mercedes.

  I waved from the porch. “Buh-bye, Evans.” I’d planned to return to the library, but a tingling on my scar, like a child tugging on my sleeve, urged me toward the staircase. From above, the floorboards complained. I climbed the stairs and froze. Footsteps?

  Shiloh, don’t be the dumb chick who gets herself killed by looking for the scary noise in the haunted house! Too clichéd.

  I looked around but didn’t see the shades. My gut told me this probably wasn’t supernatural. Probably kids checking out the haunted house. So I sprung off the step and grabbed the baseball bat Trent had left by the front door, and ventured upstairs. “Somebody there? This is private property! And I’m gonna call the cops.” I called down the hall.

  Nothing. Silence.

  Shadowy figures raced ahead of me, the acerbic trace of sulfur encircled me, resinous and pungent, closing in until it assaulted my nostrils. Little hounds following me around. I paid them no mind.

  The footsteps stopped.

  I lifted the bat, getting a firmer grip on the handle. If I am going down—I’m going down swinging. It helped that I didn’t suck at baseball.

  “Hello?”

  Footsteps resonated and I stopped again. The noise stopped too. I swiveled in every direction. My hands tensed on the wooden handle, my arms itching to swing.

  No sound. No footsteps. But someone watched me.

  My temper flared. I charged toward the sound. I raised the baseball bat higher and ran to the end of the corridor. I turned right, then came to a sliding halt by the stairwell leading to the attic. I climbed the stairs, determined to discover the intruder. The attic door stood open, and I stepped inside.

  “Hello?” I readied the bat over my right shoulder. My fingers sweaty from gripping it so tight.

  The enormous open space spanned the entire length of the mansion. Stillness, deep and hollow, echoed with each step I took on the hardwood floor. Sunlight poured through the ivory curtains over the set of dormer windows. A stuffy and unpleasant odor of mold hung in the air. Several sections had bulky square redbrick structures that were part of the mansion’s chimneys. The ceiling peaked and arched with thick rafters and square upright beams supporting the roof. Silver cobwebs garlanded everything. But I was alone. No wraith. And definitely no Esael.

  I put my weapon down and opened a window. A breeze flowed into the room, clearing away the stale air. I parted the lace curtains and saw the slated rooftop, but the road and houses were obstructed by the treetops. Near the row of chests sat a sewing machine and a faceless mannequin. Out of curiosity, I peeked in the giant armoires full of moth-ridden garments. Strong odors, musky and sour, made my nose twitch. The
trunks were packed with dusty old books, dress patterns, yards of fabric, old hats, a rusty revolver, old warped records, and even wigs.

  My most important discovery was a stack of letters tied with a scarlet ribbon. They were addressed to a Massachusetts residence and postmarked “return to sender.” The signature: Sincerely, Claire Donovan. I gasped, clutching the letters to my chest. This I had to read. I made myself comfortable on a velvet chaise lounge beneath a dormer window.

  Dear Abigail,

  I’m writing to you in the confidence of one sister to another. Remember Maxwell Donovan who came to our Christmas party? The one Papa didn’t like? Well, I didn’t tell you, but during dinner, we couldn’t stop staring at each other. When we danced later that night, he told me my eyes were a dazzling shade of sapphire.

  “Eyes are the windows to the soul,” I teased him.

  He laughed. “Your soul must be a brilliant flame, luminous enough to enchant even me.”

  The rest of the evening, I spent dancing in his arms. I was in heaven. Before Maxwell left, he kissed me passionately.

  Papa pulled me into his study the next morning and forbid me from seeing him again. You may think it’s silly, but one look into Maxwell’s green eyes and my heart was lost forever. When I told Maxwell, he said intensely, “He can’t stop us from being together. One day, you’ll be mine forever.” And I believed him.

  The truth is, Maxwell and I have been secretly dating and after a few months, he asked me to marry him. We have run off and eloped. Please tell Papa and make him understand.

  Oh, Abigail, I wish I had a chance to say goodbye, but tomorrow we leave for Maxwell’s hometown, Whispering Pines. I’ll write again soon.

  Dear Abigail,

  I miss you and Papa and I hope this letter finds you both in good health. Well, it’s been over a month since I’ve last written and I have so much to tell!

  As a wedding present, Maxwell purchased an estate named Ravenhurst Manor. It is colossal and breathtaking. Yet a chill touched my heart when I stepped inside, but I didn’t mention this foreboding to Maxwell. Despite this, I’ve never been so happy in my life. Please give Papa my love and write again soon.

  Dear Abigail,

  I miss you terribly, but I’ve kept busy over the months decorating and building onto my new home. Yet I’m achingly lonely. Maxwell is constantly away on business, and it’s been hard without him. The howling winds and billowy fog are romantic, yet eerie, keeping the estate shrouded in mist. It’s the endless California coastal fog that unnerves me the most, for Ravenhurst seems dim even during the daylight hours.

  Today I had to get away. I went downtown and met a woman in the bookstore named Jill. I admire her gregarious personality. We talked for hours, and I told her the one thing missing in my life was a child. Desperate for a friend, I invited Jill over for tea the next day. She hesitated initially before finally agreeing. We had a nice time, enjoying tea on the terrace. She asked to use the bathroom, and I had my housekeeper show her inside. After twenty minutes, I went to look for her, figuring she had gotten lost. I found her in the upstairs bathroom.

  Abigail, this is so odd, but Jill was standing at the sink, holding a black candle. I watched her through the slit in the doorway as she took strands of hair from Maxwell’s comb. The candle was lit and it gave off an eerie green glow. Jill closed her eyes, chanting in some unidentifiable language that sounded like Latin. Disturbed, I went back downstairs. I never said anything to her, but I wonder what she was doing.

  Something whizzed past my head, ruffling my hair. I jumped up and frantically searched the rafters. Ugh, bats! Tiny beasts swooped and dived at my head while I dodged their attack. I opened a window and the bats flew toward the sunset.

  Bats I can handle. Creepy shades and demons were a different matter.

  Relieved by the departure of the bats, I sat back down on the lounge to read.

  Dear Abigail,

  Since the day of Jill’s visit, I’ve been hearing inhuman voices. An unseen “presence” is in Ravenhurst with me. There is something evil haunting this house. I can feel the malice striving to get inside me. The solitude and isolation are beginning to unnerve me.

  Ravenhurst frightens me. Now why did I write that?

  The worst is forthcoming, Abigail, I’ve suffered through six miscarriages. All dead baby girls. I had local workmen build me a cemetery in the backyard. My dead daughters, my little angels are buried in it. Maxwell thinks it’s a morbid thing to do, but I don’t care. He doesn’t understand me. He doesn’t understand Ravenhurst. But I do.

  Yesterday, I overheard a maid saying that another child had mysteriously gone missing. Now I’m not the only one in Whispering Pines mourning the loss of a child.

  Maxwell keeps asking me what’s wrong and I never know what to say. That I want a child so badly that I cry each night? That the whispering shadows fill me with dread?

  Dear Abigail,

  Wonderful news! I’m seven months pregnant and doing fine. Maxwell has been away on business in New York, and he doesn’t even know yet. It is not something I want to tell him over the phone. I miss him so much. It has been three months since we’ve seen each other. I just hope when I finally tell Maxwell, we’ll be a real family at last, and I can talk him into moving out of Ravenhurst.

  The only thing disturbing my happiness is the constant whispering in the fog. Voices telling me that I am unloved and weak. Yet I know if I leave, the evil lurking within the manor will be unleashed. Especially since the vanishing of a local teen has everyone murmuring about an old witch’s curse.

  Dear Abigail,

  Why haven’t you written? It’s been months. Has Papa discovered our correspondence? Is he still angry after all these years? I called but the number was disconnected. I need you more than ever. Today I told Maxwell. He looked distraught. “When did this happen?” he exclaimed.

  “I decided to keep the pregnancy a secret until I was sure I wouldn’t lose the baby,” I said.

  He rubbed his head and said, “Claire, I had an affair. She’s pregnant. I’m sorry. She was my childhood sweetheart, and though I’ve tried to forget her—I can’t. It’s like she put a spell on me.”

  “How could you do this? I love you! And our baby will be the legitimate heir!” I cried and beat my fists against his chest. “I know things have been difficult, but they’ll change once our baby is born.”

  “What if they don’t?” he asked, and I had no answer.

  Until the baby comes, I need a diversion, so I’m having a playroom built. It’s strange, because now I can’t fall asleep without the clamor of sawing and hammering to lull me into dreams…

  My body felt stiff. I shifted in my seat and stretched my legs. It seemed during the last months of her pregnancy Claire had poured her energy into the renovations on the manor. And the Gordian knot that tied her to Ravenhurst seemed to have locked for good. I opened the next letter and got comfortable again.

  Dear Abigail,

  My child was born at 3:13 this morning. The staff claims they’ve never seen a more adorable baby than my Trent. My lonely house will be filled with the laughter of children. Ravenhurst will haunt me no more. I’ll ignore the shriek of the wind and the shadows whispering, always whispering.

  When Maxwell looked at our son sleeping in his crib, he said, “Take him and go, Claire. Before it’s too late.” His eyes gazed into mine. A touch of wistfulness colored his tone. “In a moment of weakness, I’ve done a horrendous thing. It cannot be undone. If you stay…he’ll die.” Maxwell looked out the window, and said, “It’s always the first born child…God, what were we thinking?”

  My heart pounded at his ominous words.

  Ravenhurst has been dank and darker lately. Groaning loudly at night. To drown out the whispering shadows and the chandelier’s otherworldly jingling, the construction on Ravenhurst must carry on day and night.

  Dear Abigail,

  Tonight a black shadow materialized in my bedroom. At first, I assumed it was m
y imagination. But when the horrible misty shape tried to become solid—I knew it wasn’t.

  Oh! Its eyes! His terrible yellow eyes.

  It spoke in an unearthly voice, “I am Esael. It is time we met, Claire.” He sniffed the air. “How I have hungered for you. From the moment, I breathed your innocence.” Then the demon growled. Revealing sharp, pointy teeth. “I need more innocent souls. I grow weak within the confines of this trap. You must lure them here.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  He did not respond. Only stared at my sleeping son and I knew the answer.

  Dear Abigail,

  It seems ridiculous that it’s taken me this long to realize what must be done. Every time the wind blows and stirs the prisms that jingle throughout Ravenhurst, I know death is close. Esael and I have struck a bargain at last. If only for the life of my child.

  So I say, goodbye dear sister. Forgive me for being weak. I can no longer live this way. My heart has turned to stone. How can I be a mother if I feel nothing? Now Maxwell will have to finish raising our son. Someday he will have to tell him what I did to save him. The sacrifices I made. Things I’ve forsaken for family—for the life of my son.

  As I await death, I have donned my wedding gown to remind Maxwell of our marriage vows. And my long held wish to be buried in my bridal attire.

  I’m here, Esael. I’m ready…

  I glanced out the windows. I remembered the vision of Claire and Esael, the day Jillian had stopped the car in front of Ravenhurst. Claire had shown me her death. And the reason she had sacrificed herself. So Trent could live. He’d never been in danger. I realized that now. Just me.

  Twilight had taken over the sky, turning it pink, blue and orange. The signaling of the end of a day. Claire had led me into the attic to discover these letters, the family’s Rosetta stone. Silent tears spilled from my eyes, falling upon the pages, smearing her handwriting. I cried for her and her son. I cried for the unfairness of it and her weakness. I cried for Trent’s loss of a doting parent.