by Jana DeLeon
“Thanks for the tea,” she said. “I’m sorry I freaked out on you. You’ve been really patient, but I know I owe you an explanation.” She opened a small plastic container she’d brought with her from the bedroom. A container that she never traveled without.
“Everything I know about my past is in this box,” she said.
“I don’t understand.”
“I was raised in an orphanage. All the nuns could tell me was a woman left me there one night in the middle of a thunderstorm. I was only a year old. The woman said she couldn’t be responsible for what would happen to me and begged them to take me.”
“Did they call the police?”
“Yes. The police issued a statement to the public asking for people to report anyone who used to have a baby but didn’t any longer and gave a limited description of the woman. It was dark and she wore a hooded jacket, so the nuns couldn’t provide the police with much to go on.”
“But no one ever came forward.”
“No. They finally assumed the woman wasn’t from the area, which is why no one had identified her. Since I was safe with the nuns, no one felt the need to escalate it to a national level, so I stayed at the orphanage with the nuns.”
“They didn’t try to get you adopted? I would think someone would be interested in a baby so young.”
Olivia stared down at her tea, knowing she needed to tell John everything, but she doubted he’d believe her. No one else did. “I was placed a couple of times, but both ended badly so the nuns didn’t try again.”
“Ended badly?”
“The nuns said I would scream like I was being murdered and wake everyone up from a dead sleep. Nothing they did would soothe me. It took hours for me to calm down. The nuns had me checked repeatedly by doctors, but they couldn’t find anything wrong.”
“But obviously it stopped.”
“No. I just stopped screaming.”
John’s eyes widened. “What causes it?”
“A dream. I’ve had it as long as I can remember. Sometimes once a month, sometimes every night, but it’s always the same.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
Olivia blew out a breath. “I don’t want to, but I think I have to. I need someone to tell me I’m not crazy or paranoid.”
John nodded, but Olivia noticed he didn’t make any promises.
Olivia took a deep breath and began. “It starts off like I’m flying over a wooded area. I swoop down into a clearing and approach an enormous house. I fly inside an upstairs window and then the dream shifts. I’m in a bed sleeping. It’s a large room and the bed is ornate with tall pillars on each corner and gauze draped around it. A man walks into the bedroom and stands next to the bed, staring down at me. Even though I’m asleep in my dream, I can see him standing there almost as if I’m also floating above the bed.”
Olivia took another drink of her tea and focused on staying calm. “As I open my eyes, he raises a dagger above me and plunges it into my heart. I can see his eyes as clearly as I see yours now. They’re completely dead, and I know he doesn’t feel an ounce of remorse for what he’s done. I gasp for air, but I can feel my lungs collapsing, my heart beating so loudly that it drowns out all the nighttime noise. I clutch my chest and scream, trying to drown out the sound of my fading heartbeat. Then I wake up.”
“Do you recognize the man?”
“No. In my dream, I know that I know him, but when I’m awake, I can’t remember his face. Only his eyes.”
John hesitated for a moment and Olivia could tell he was struggling for the right thing to say. “I’m sorry you have to deal with that, and it sounds truly horrifying, but I don’t understand what it has to do with your being here.”
Olivia pulled a small jewelry case out of the container and opened it. She held the case across the table for John to see. “This is the other half of the locket you took from the tunnel. I was clutching it when the nuns took me.”
John stared at the two broken pieces, and Olivia could tell he desperately wanted another explanation, an easy, risk-free answer. “I’m sure there was more than one locket made. I admit, it’s a startling coincidence, but I think you might be reaching.”
Olivia shook her head. “That locket was not mass produced. I took my half for appraisal. The jeweler said it was handcrafted and about one hundred and fifty years old. I’d bet anything that if we take both pieces to a jeweler, he’ll say they’re a match.”
“So maybe someone followed you here. Someone who’s always had the other half and for some reason is choosing now to try and freak you out. This situation still has all the makings of a stalker.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is the house from my dreams.”
John’s eyes widened.
“And that woman in the photo—the one that looks like me,” Olivia continued, “was murdered by her husband.”
JOHN GLANCED OVER AT THE COUCH in the caretaker’s cottage, but even with the dim light of the lantern he could see Olivia was out cold, probably from sheer exhaustion. Wavy locks, the color of caramel, fell across her forehead and rested on her perfectly-defined cheekbones. Even in her sleep Olivia’s face had that timeless beauty to it, just like Marilyn Borque. She hadn’t even argued when John had suggested she stay at his place that night, which meant she’d either seen the logic behind leaving a place where no room was necessarily secure, or she’d simply been scared to death. Maybe both.
Not that he blamed her.
The entire situation was more bizarre than what he was used to, and Olivia had every right to be scared and upset. The situation disturbed him on so many levels, he was having trouble wrapping his mind around them all. He stared out the kitchen window at the sheets of rain and sighed. The last thing he needed was to take anything else on right now, but it didn’t look like he had a choice. Like it or not, Olivia might be the key to unlocking the secrets of the house and finding his sister.
John didn’t buy into some past life dream transference, and he could tell Olivia was skeptical as well, but the reality was that some very strange things had happened and at the moment neither of them had a logical explanation. The only thing he was certain about was that someone, a living breathing someone, was laying a trap for Olivia with the photos and the jewelry. Someone who wanted to remain hidden in the shadows but someone with an agenda.
What John needed was more information—about the house and Olivia, but after she’d delivered that last statement about the murdered woman it was clear her defenses and emotions were crumbling fast. He needed information, but he needed her thinking clearly when she gave it. So instead, he’d offered her a glass of wine and a safe place on his couch and planned to question her again first thing in the morning. They couldn’t afford to waste much time.
John had two theories based on what Olivia had told him, but neither were much more credible than a vision in a dream. The first theory was that Olivia had been to the house as an infant. The second theory was that her biological mother or someone close to her, maybe a foster parent, had been murdered and Olivia had seen it. Even though she’d been a baby, maybe something had been impressed on her memory. Something that came back to her in her dreams.
He blew out a breath and shook his head. If that didn’t sound like an X-Files episode, he didn’t know what did.
Regardless, all signs pointed to something big whirling around Olivia Markham—something even Olivia didn’t have a grasp on. John wondered exactly what his sister had had the misfortune to step in the middle of. Whatever it was, the intruder probably hadn’t counted on an extra person in the mix, and assuming his sister had come across this person, what had he done to her? John could only hope that whatever the intruder’s ultimate plan may be that it didn’t include murder.
He’d hoped the camera Olivia had found would give him proof that his sister had been at laMalediction, but he’d only found pictures of the exterior of the house and a couple of shot
s of the entryway. They were definitely things his sister would have taken pictures of for her thesis, but it couldn’t be considered concrete proof. Frustrated, he rose from the table and pulled a beer from the refrigerator.
He should be inspecting the attic or trying to figure out where that tunnel was supposed to lead, but he didn’t want to leave Olivia alone. The photo on Olivia’s bed was proof the intruder was escalating, and as soon as John got a chance he needed to dust the photo and the tunnel switches for prints. Leaving that photo was brazen, even with the tunnels, in the middle of the day and with both of them right there in the house.
Then there was the flip side—if the intruder had his sister, the best way to get to him was through Olivia. He felt a moment of guilt that he was using her, but he pushed it aside. He might be using her, but in doing so he was also protecting her.
At least that’s what he was telling himself.
OLIVIA FLEW OVER THE SWAMP surrounding laMalediction. She knew she was dreaming, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t force herself awake. It was the same as before, the storm, the outline of the house, and she clenched her eyes, trying to block out what she knew she’d see but everything remained in full view. This time she hovered in front of the house and Olivia saw Franklin Borque pass in front of the window in the formal living room.
She dipped down and the view changed, almost as if she were peering into the house from the outside wall. Franklin Bourque was in the kitchen, opening one of the cabinet drawers. He was wearing dinner clothes, but Olivia somehow knew it was the middle of the night. He pulled something from the drawer, but his body blocked the object from Olivia’s vision.
When he turned, the blade of the knife flashed in the light of the lone candle on the kitchen table, and Olivia sucked in a breath. He looked down at the blade, turning the knife over and over in his palm. He smiled as he looked at it, his eyes flashing wildly with excitement and anticipation. He drew the blade of the knife across his open palm and blood spilled from the cut. He brought his palm up to his face and licked it, smearing blood across his jaw.
Olivia knew for certain that he was mad.
He walked up the stairs, blood dripping from his cut hand, the knife clenched in the other. The door to the master bedroom was closed and he didn’t even attempt to open it. Instead he continued past it several feet, then pressed his hand on the wall, leaving a bloody handprint on the white plaster surface. A section of the wall slid back and Olivia realized he was entering the passage that led to the master bedroom from the hallway.
The dream shifted immediately to the inside of the master bedroom and Olivia expected to be in the bed, but this time the dream changed and she hovered above the bed watching the scene play out below. Marilyn Borque lay sleeping in the bed, completely unaware of the danger in the hallway. The wall where the wardrobe now stood was bare and Olivia watched as the panel slid back and Franklin Borque entered the room.
Olivia screamed at Marilyn, trying to wake her from her deep sleep, but no sound came out. Her throat burned as she struggled to make a noise, and she felt her lungs would explode as Franklin stood above Marilyn and thrust the knife deep into her heart.
The sound of tearing flesh freed her throttled voice and her screams finally broke free. She bolted upright in a panic at her unfamiliar surroundings. Where the hell was she? Her vision blurred, and a second later someone grabbed her shoulders and shook them.
“Olivia, wake up!”
She gasped for air, clutching the fabric of the sofa, and finally remembered she was in the caretaker’s cottage. Her vision began to clear and she saw John standing over her, felt his hands on her shoulders, his voice trying to bring her out of the nightmare. She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, then lay back on the couch, trying to slow her racing heart.
John crouched beside her. “Was it the dream?”
Olivia nodded, not yet able to speak.
He placed his hand on her arm. “From your description last night I knew it had to be horrifying, but I have to tell you, you scared the hell out of me. Your scream was so primal, the fear so evident. And when I found you…your eyes were wide open, but it’s like you couldn’t see me. Like you were trapped in there.”
“I was. That’s the worst part. I know I’m dreaming but I can’t wake myself up.”
“Was this one the same as before?”
Olivia shook her head and told him about seeing Franklin Bourque in the kitchen. “He was mad, and I mean in a clinical sense. I could tell by his expression.”
“You’re not going to get any argument from me. Anyone who cuts open their own palm before murdering their wife clearly has issues.” John frowned and stared at the wall behind her for a couple of seconds. “The dream has always been the same until now, right?”
“Always.”
“So why do you think it changed now?”
Olivia rose to a sitting position and tucked her knees in front of her, encircling them with her arms. “Maybe being at the house? The house, the storm, even some of the furniture is the same.”
John nodded. “Maybe so. Given your past, the horrific history of the house’s residents and your imagination, it’s not any wonder that your subconscious would whirl out of control with the stimulus it’s received.”
“But it seemed real. I know you find this hard to believe, and I’m not saying you aren’t right in your assessment, but I think what I saw may be the truth.”
“Are there any official records?”
“Yeah, but they’re sketchy. Mostly, the police had only the servants’ word to go on because Franklin died the same night.”
“Of what?”
Olivia shook her head. “I don’t know. I couldn’t find anything on it, except that one of the servants walked for two days to get the police. Cypriere was no more than a village at the time. The police arrived to find Marilyn Borque stabbed to death and Franklin dead in the middle of the courtyard.”
John frowned. “He died in the courtyard and the servants left him there for days?”
“People are superstitious in these parts. You know that. No one wanted to touch the body of ‘the devil.’”
“And the police never determined cause of death?”
“Not that I could find. After the initial discovery the entire story just fell off the map as far as paperwork goes. It’s like everyone wanted it to go away.” Olivia took a deep breath and blew it out. “With everything I know about the murder, it could have happened exactly like my dream. Nothing in my dream contradicts the actual reports.”
“Very slim reports,” John pointed out. “I…I’m sorry, but I can’t go there. It’s too far beyond what I believe. People who’ve been in horrendous situations often have issues with dreams. Like soldiers with post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“But I’ve never seen a murder or anything else that traumatic. I think I would remember if I had. And how do you explain my seeing the house in my dreams before I’d ever been here? I don’t pretend to have the answers, but I don’t think you do either. I think somewhere between our two differing opinions lies the truth.”
“Maybe, but all we have to work with now is reality.” He rose from the floor. “It’s almost dawn. I figure you have no intention of going back to sleep, so I’ll make some coffee.”
He stepped into the kitchen and started spooning coffee grounds into the coffeemaker. Olivia rose from the couch and headed for the bathroom. Maybe a dash of cold water on her face would help clear the fog from her mind. She was fully awake but her mind still felt cloudy, as if she was stuck in limbo between reality and her dream.
She closed the bathroom door and stared at herself in the mirror. The one thing she was certain of was that the dreams were no coincidence. Despite her talent for inventing spooky stories, she somehow knew that this story wasn’t a fabrication of her overactive imagination. Olivia was certain that somehow, she’d witnessed a murder that had happened over a century ago.
Ten minutes later, Oli
via took a huge sip of coffee and avoided looking across the table at John. In the dim light of day, she felt foolish for her panic the night before and was mortified that not only had she slept on the couch of a man who was practically a stranger, but also she’d awakened him by screaming like a frightened child. Olivia had always avoided sharing personal information with others, especially men, but there was something about John that made her want to trust him. Which went against something else she’d always avoided—men.
“I’ve been thinking about the tunnel,” John said.
“Yeah. What about it?”
“Well, obviously someone planned to use it or they wouldn’t have made repairs.”
Olivia nodded, even though the only reason someone would have for needing the tunnels was her occupancy of the house. “It’s because of me, right? I mean, the house has been empty all these years, so no one would need a way to sneak around if I wasn’t there.”
“Based on everything that’s happened, I have to assume the intruder is here because of you. I may be wrong, but…”
“It would be a huge coincidence.” Olivia shook her head. “I don’t do huge coincidences, not even in my books. I know they happen, but not near as often as people might think. Usually there’s someone with a motive.”
John narrowed his eyes at her. “That sounds like something a cop would say.”
Olivia shrugged. “I have to understand a lot of personality types to write good books, including the bad guys, and I spend a fair amount of time consulting with law enforcement as well as with behavioral analysts. Everyone’s got a motive, John. Some of them are good, decent and altruistic, but there’s always a reason behind what people do.”
“Well, I’d prefer not to wait until the big showdown to figure out what this guy’s motive is, so we need to come up with a plan.”
