Nothing Hidden Ever Stays

by HR Mason

  Momentarily taken aback by the strange greeting, she didn’t allow the passive expression on her face to waver. Aubrey breathed deeply, held her head high, and ambled down the narrow aisles, pretending not to notice that she was something akin to a circus sideshow. She’d been in many uncomfortable situations in her life, and she’d become an expert at disguising her true feelings.

  She grabbed a can of chicken noodle soup, a package of crackers, and a bottle of water before making her way to the cash register; she was hungry, and she didn’t know if there would be food at the house. She plunked the items onto the counter, steadily holding the gaze of the young cashier, who tried her best not to look away.

  “You’re new in town.” The cashier, whose name tag said Cammie Lawson, raised her voice to barely above a whisper.

  “It would seem so,” Aubrey replied.

  “What brings you to Rossdale?” The cashier lowered her voice even more, as if their communication should remain a secret.

  “Family matters,” Aubrey answered curtly.

  “Where are you staying?”

  Aubrey didn’t know if all small-town residents were this invasive, or if it was a phenomenon specific to Rossdale. Either way, she didn’t like it.

  “I’m staying at Desolate Ridge.”

  Aubrey purposely answered loud enough for everyone in the store to hear. If they were going to stare, she would give them a good reason.

  “Desolate Ridge?”

  Cammie’s hands trembled as she counted back Aubrey’s change.

  “Yes, Desolate Ridge. I assume you’ve heard of it.”

  “You mean Murder Ridge?”

  Aubrey pivoted at the sound of the voice behind her. It came from a tall, angry-looking, acne-faced teenage boy.

  “Why did you call it Murder Ridge?”

  “There’s something wrong with the place. That Ross family is crazy. The house is haunted, you know,” he answered.

  “Hush, Cooper. Don’t scare her,” Cammie admonished the boy.

  “I don’t scare easily,” Aubrey insisted, maintaining eye contact with Cooper.

  “Well, anyway, I apologize for my brother. He doesn’t know when to stop.”

  “It’s true, Cammie. The house is haunted. Everyone knows it. She probably knows it too,” Cooper countered.

  “Actually, I don’t know much about the house at all,” Aubrey replied.

  “What’s your name?” Cooper asked as he chewed his gum faster.

  “Aubrey Ross.”

  She emphasized her surname, knowing it would get a rise out of the onlookers. The sound of her voice zapped the silence of the room, vibrating, touching down like a bolt of lightning from the sky. A woman standing nearby gasped loudly. Aubrey glanced back and forth between Cooper and Cammie. The young man took a step away from her, and his sister’s face grew pale.

  “Your last name’s Ross? Does that mean you’re crazy too?” Cooper looked her up and down, shifting nervously from one foot to the other.

  Aubrey wasn’t sure how to respond, because she honestly didn’t have a good answer. Maybe she was crazy. She’d certainly considered the possibility.

  “You just ignore him, Ms. Ross. Cooper has a big mouth.” The cashier gave Aubrey the smallest hint of a smile. “Here’s your bag. Welcome to Rossdale.”

  7

  “Did you find what you needed, ma’am?” Carlton asked as Aubrey slid into the back seat of the vehicle.

  “I did,” she answered curtly.

  She was still reeling from the incident in Lawson’s General Store. She hadn’t expected anyone to roll out the red carpet for her when she arrived in Rossdale, but she also hadn’t imagined her mere presence would terrify the townspeople. Cooper said Desolate Ridge was haunted. He also said the members of the Ross family were insane. The boy’s insinuation of hereditary insanity had really struck a nerve with her.

  She’d been called some variety of crazy for most of her life. One of her foster mothers had gone so far as to have Aubrey evaluated by a psychiatrist when she made the mistake of revealing she had premonitions. She often knew something bad was going to happen long before it did. The sixth sense had served her well throughout her difficult life, but others were unsettled by her unexplainable knowledge.

  Aubrey had also battled paranoia, depression, and anxiety in some form or other for as long as she could remember. No doctor had ever given her a concrete diagnosis, but Aubrey herself had always known she was different. Was it possible the Ross family genes carried a strand of mental illness?

  “Carlton, may I ask you something?”

  She didn’t know how much the stranger might be willing to share, but she had to start somewhere.

  “Go ahead, ma’am,” he answered.

  “When I was in the store, I mentioned I was headed to Desolate Ridge. The strangest thing happened. A boy called it Murder Ridge, and he said the entire Ross family was crazy. Do you know anything about that?”

  She watched Carlton’s face closely in the rearview mirror. She’d grown adept at reading other people, and she clearly noticed the look of trepidation that passed over the driver’s face. He waited a couple of seconds before answering.

  “I wouldn’t pay too much attention to the things people say. Folks around here have always been jealous of the Ross family’s money. They’ve made up all sorts of tales. It’s just a bunch of wagging tongues.”

  “So, you’re telling me there’s no truth in what he said?”

  “I think it’s best to form your own opinions, ma’am,” Carlton replied noncommittally.

  Aubrey was irritated. He hadn’t answered her questions at all, but if there were secrets afoot at Desolate Ridge, she wouldn’t rest until she uncovered them.

  She decided to approach the situation from another angle.

  “Mr. Wayfair said my grandmother died six months ago. What about my grandfather? I don’t even know his name.”

  “Your grandfather’s name was Stuart. He passed away in 1998,” Carlton answered.

  “That’s only a year after my mother killed herself. Did you know him?”

  Aubrey needed to piece together the broken shards of her family’s history if she had any hope of understanding her place in it.

  “Yes, I knew your grandfather. I started driving for him when I was just out of high school,” he replied.

  “What was he like?”

  “Stuart Ross was a force. His word was law, and you didn’t want to cross him. I learned early on to keep my head down and do my job.”

  “How did he die?”

  “He died in a long-term psychiatric care facility. He was… volatile, to say the least.”

  It was painfully obvious that Carlton didn’t want to reveal any sensitive information about her family. Aubrey needed answers, though, so she persisted.

  “And my grandmother? What was she like? How did she die?”

  “Everyone was terrified of your grandmother.”

  Aubrey’s eyes widened. “Why?”

  “Elizabeth Ross was a shrewd, domineering woman. A person did not want to anger her. Your grandmother wanted things done a certain way, and you didn’t question it.”

  “How did she die?”

  “She died at Desolate Ridge six months ago.”

  “From what?” Aubrey persisted. It was like pulling teeth to get answers from the driver.

  “She had been ill for quite some time. The doctors said she had schizophrenia, but Elizabeth insisted she didn’t.”

  “What made the doctors believe she was schizophrenic?” Aubrey knew there was something else Carlton wasn’t saying.

  “Your grandmother saw and heard things that weren’t really there,” Carlton explained.

  Aubrey shivered as she digested the news that her grandmother might have had premonitions, just like she did. She ruminated on the fact that her grandfather died in a mental hospital. Every scrap of information she’d gleaned about her family was cryptic and unhappy, prompting even more questions. Her
mother had written about trying to outrun a family curse. Aubrey didn’t believe in such things, but it did make her wonder.

  “There it is, ma’am. That’s Desolate Ridge right ahead,” Carlton said quietly.

  Aubrey glanced out the window as a large creaking wrought iron gate slid open. The car crept up a serpentine road, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Thick trees obscured Aubrey’s view of Desolate Ridge, but as they neared the end of the driveway, she saw it.

  Silhouetted against the stark gray sky, the house immediately pulled her forward, as if there were a magnetic force field drawing her in. She couldn’t have turned back if she wanted to.

  The Bentley came to a halt in the circular drive. Aubrey gazed out the car’s window, her breath coming in short, rapid bursts. She couldn’t move. For a moment, everything stood still, almost as if Aubrey and the house itself had been frozen in time, fossilized inside a chunk of translucent amber.

  Desolate Ridge looked more like a fortress than a house. It was a mammoth two-story Federal-style brick mansion, equally imposing and inviting. Her eyes were drawn to the elliptical fanlight and side windows that adorned the large front entrance. The setting sun glinted off the tracery, creating a delicate branching pattern. It was as if a magical spell were being cast by the weblike etchings in the glass.

  Nine large Palladian windows adorned the brick façade. At the front of the house was a portico supported by four large columns. Two giant chimneys peeked out of the roof, standing like soldiers at attention, flanked by double garret windows. A pentagonal projection jutted out from the right side of the house, breaking up the dwelling’s otherwise perfect symmetry. The side addition of the home also had a porch and several windows.

  Emotions Aubrey barely recognized warred inside of her. Longing, fear, desperation, and confusion spun around like a carousel in her brain. The feeling of finally coming home clashed with the clawing need to flee. As Aubrey looked at Desolate Ridge, she fidgeted with the ring, which had once again grown snug on her finger.

  As if in a trance, she opened the door of the car and climbed out. She walked slowly across the driveway toward the house. As she approached the front portico, her chest grew tight, gripping, seizing, making her feel as if she couldn’t breathe.

  Aubrey’s icy hands fluttered to her throat, and she recognized the impression of burning fingertips squeezing tightly, exactly as she’d felt in the nightmare. Panic seized her as she struggled to catch her breath. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the sense of suffocation left her, and Aubrey’s respiration returned to normal.

  She didn’t know what was happening. Nothing about the situation made sense.

  Aubrey edged closer to the house, and as she did, she glanced up at the garret windows. She blinked twice, certain she was seeing things.

  Standing behind the glass of the attic window was a woman in a flowing white gown. Her chestnut hair was the same color as Aubrey’s, but it was much longer. It cascaded in waves down her back and spilled like a waterfall over her shoulders.

  Aubrey continued to stare, and the woman’s sapphire eyes, exactly like her own, bored into her. In the silence of the encroaching darkness, the clear, comprehensible sound of a woman’s voice said, “Welcome home.”

  Spinning around to see who had spoken, Aubrey found there was no one in sight but Carlton, who remained inside the car. When she glanced back toward the attic window, the woman was gone.

  8

  Clearly unaware of Aubrey’s strange experience, Carlton jumped out of the car, removed the suitcase from the trunk, and walked to the front door of the house. Aubrey tried to regain her composure, but her head was pounding, and she felt faint.

  There was no mistaking the fact that Aubrey had clearly heard a voice, and a woman who was her doppelgänger had been standing at the attic window. It must have been real; it was too vivid to have been imagined. Aubrey replayed the scene over again in her mind. There must have been some logical explanation.

  Carlton hadn’t mentioned whether or not other people lived at Desolate Ridge. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who would be residing in the large house. Maybe the woman also lived there. If so, it would all make perfect sense.

  Aubrey followed Carlton through the front door as he flipped on the entry lights. A crystal chandelier illuminated the large central hall. Aubrey gasped at the splendor of the house. There was a large curved spiral staircase winding its way to a second-story landing area. Between the gleaming hardwood floors sprinkled with immense Persian throw rugs and the decorative window caps and rosette moldings throughout the room, Desolate Ridge was the textbook definition of classically refined ornamentation and elegance. The home may have been two centuries old, but its care and upkeep were unrivaled.

  “Carlton, does someone else live here? A woman, perhaps?” Aubrey’s voice echoed in the vast expanse of the room.

  “No, ma’am. It’s been empty since your grandmother died.”

  “Empty?”

  “Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Bonaventure and their son, Anson, are the caretakers. They come around every day to work on the grounds and tidy up the house.”

  “But they’re not here now?”

  “Right now there’s no one here but us,” he explained.

  Aubrey frowned. “Just us? You’re sure?”

  “It’s just us, ma’am.”

  “Do you live here?”

  “Oh, no, I don’t live here. My wife and I live just down the road. But you can call me anytime you need to go somewhere and I’ll drive you,” he replied.

  “Can’t I drive myself?”

  Aubrey couldn’t imagine calling another person whenever she wanted to leave the house. She was fully capable of driving, as long as she had a car and a set of keys.

  “Well, you can drive yourself if you’d like, but that’s what I’m here for. That’s my job. The Ross family members never drive themselves anywhere.”

  “Well, Carlton, I think you’re going to find I’m a bit different from what you’re used to.”

  Carlton seemed bothered by the prospect of her driving. Maybe he was concerned for his job security.

  “Is there another car?” she asked. “I don’t mind driving myself every now and then.”

  The driver sighed deeply. Clearly she’d said something wrong.

  “Ma’am, there are four cars besides the Bentley in the garage. The keys are hanging in the kitchen. They’re all labeled. They all belong to you, so you may do as you wish.”

  Aubrey had never owned a car. She couldn’t afford it. The prospect of owning five of them was unimaginable. The only reason she’d even gotten a driver’s license was because she’d lived with a foster mother who taught her to drive when she turned sixteen. She’d wanted Aubrey to drive her own brood of children around, so she’d been happy to have another driver in the house.

  “Thank you for the information, Carlton. And don’t worry, I will be sure to call you every now and then,” she assured him.

  “As you wish, ma’am. Is there anything else?”

  “Anything else?”

  “That you need.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Then I’d best be going. My wife will have supper waiting,” Carlton replied.

  “You’re leaving? What… I mean, I don’t… really know what I’m supposed to do.”

  Aubrey hadn’t thought ahead to what would happen once she arrived. She’d assumed there would be someone there to explain what came next, someone to help her. She was in a strange place, an unfamiliar house, and it was dark outside. She didn’t know where to find anything. She didn’t know how to get anywhere.

  Aubrey had no idea how to be the mistress of an estate. There were rules and customs she couldn’t even fathom. There was decorum and etiquette she didn’t know, obligations and conventions she didn’t understand. She hadn’t been raised to take over an empire. She was a foundling; she wasn’t groomed for such a role.

  “I left Mr. Lemon’s card on the
kitchen counter,” Carlton told her. “That’s the door to the right, just down the hall. You should call him soon.”

  “Why should I call him?”

  “He’s the Ross family’s attorney. He’ll be able to better direct you,” he deflected.

  “What about Mr. Wayfair? When will I see him?”

  As anxious as the strange Mr. Wayfair had been for her to claim her inheritance, she’d expected he would remain by her side through everything. He had been annoying, but at that moment she wished he were there.

  “Mr. Wayfair is a very busy man. He comes and goes as he pleases. I’m sure he’ll be in touch. Call me if you need anything. My number is programmed into the phone in the kitchen. It’s labeled as well.”

  Carlton smiled, tipped his hat, and left.

  The thud of the heavy wooden door reverberated in the empty room. Once again, Aubrey was alone, just as she’d always been. She was alone in a mansion that had her name on the deed. She was alone with the ghosts of a past she didn’t understand. She was alone with a possible apparition in the attic. She was all alone, while her tenuous grip on reality diminished by the minute.

  She listened as the sound of silence settled in all around her. The stillness was deafening. A creaking sound caused the hairs on her arms to stand on end. Her heart raced as the soft fall of footsteps shuffled across the floorboards above. Beads of perspiration pooled on her upper lip.

  Aubrey jumped at the loud chiming of the grandfather clock in the hallway. She watched as the large pendulum swung back and forth inside the glass. She told herself her imagination was carrying her away on flights of fancy. She needed to get a grip on reality. She’d imagined the wraith in the window, the voice speaking to her, and the footsteps above. None of it was real.

  Glancing at the clock once again, she tried to anchor herself in the present. Time was real; her fabrications were not. Counting each sound of the clock’s knell, she realized it was only seven, even though it was already pitch black outside. It seemed much later.