by HR Mason
If it was the last thing she did, she would break the curse before it broke her.
32
Desolate Ridge — 2016
Elizabeth Ross took a few labored breaths. Her eyelids grew heavy, as did her heart. Her burdened mind worked to grasp the fact that she was rapidly approaching the end of her life. There were things she had to do, reparations she needed to make. Her time was running out.
She rang the bell next to her bed. It didn’t take long for the housekeeper to come running.
“Yes, Mrs. Ross, what can I do for you?”
“Call Mr. Lemon and tell him he must come immediately,” Elizabeth demanded.
“Right away, Mrs. Ross.”
The fearful woman scurried away like a scared little mouse. Elizabeth Waterford Ross had that effect on people. She demanded respect, and she liked bending people to her will. She was cunning, calculating, and shrewd, qualities which had served her well throughout her life. It was the only reason she’d survived.
She glanced around the opulent master bedroom of the mansion that had been her home for the past forty years. She’d reigned as the mistress of Desolate Ridge since the day she married Stuart Ross. It was a role she’d been born to play. A weaker woman wouldn’t have made the cut.
Elizabeth sighed, twisting her body in the mammoth four-poster bed. It was becoming increasingly difficult to find a comfortable position to rest. She closed her eyes and the memories began, just as they always did.
Her life had not been a happy one. Her marriage to Stuart had been anything but blissful. Their partnership hadn’t been filled with love and longing. There had been no romance. Instead, their union was comprised of power and wealth, status and prestige.
Elizabeth consoled herself with the idea that position was better than passion. Now that she was nearing the end of her days, she was less convinced. Having grown up listening to the stories about the women in the Ross family, she’d heard the whispers, the rumors floating about town, saying the Ross brides were cursed.
In the secret places of her heart, she believed the tales were true, but that hadn’t stopped her. She’d always had her own agenda. So she had pushed the thoughts to the back of her mind where they belonged. She couldn’t give credence to such things if she hoped to reach her goals.
People warned Elizabeth that Stuart was crazy. They reminded her that no woman who married into the Ross family lived past the age of twenty-five. They cautioned her that these helpless women all died too soon, leaving behind their young sons, always sons. Elizabeth had been forewarned. And she’d proceeded anyway.
In Elizabeth’s opinion, the problem was that the Ross men always married women who were purely ornamental. They were nothing but trophies, women selected merely for their beauty. Elizabeth was beautiful, but there was more to her than just a pretty face. She possessed a hardness that gave her an edge, a sharpness that made her astute. The reason those vapid Ross women died young came down to one fact—they weren’t intelligent enough to stay alive.
Intellect had never been a problem for her. Elizabeth Waterford Ross was smarter and more ruthless than any man she’d ever known.
She laughed indignantly to herself as her voice echoed in the large room.
“Stuart Ross had no clue what he was getting himself into when he married me. I wasn’t like those other women.”
Her laughter turned to bitterness as she continued her dismal trip down memory lane. She propped herself up in the bed, stuffing the pillows behind her frail body for support. Sighing heavily, she allowed herself to remember.
The real problems began a year after she married Stuart, on the day she delivered their first child. Her husband flew into a rage, irate because she’d given birth to a daughter.
“The men in the Ross family only have sons. It’s a fact of life,” Stuart had screamed.
He believed his lack of a male heir to carry on the Ross name was Elizabeth’s fault. He told her it was because of her inferior genes. So he doubled up his fist and punched her in the face, blackening his wife’s eye only minutes after Anna was born.
“That was the biggest mistake that fool ever made,” Elizabeth whispered fiercely as she recalled the event.
She’d been surprised but not afraid. She’d tried to play nice, but at that moment, she decided all bets were off. Stuart Ross had grossly underestimated his wife’s capability for anger. Elizabeth stewed in her rage for a few days, knowing she had to find some way to get even. She wasn’t frightened; her husband’s cruelty only served to ignite a fire in her.
It didn’t take long for Elizabeth to plot her revenge. She refused to be anyone’s doormat or punching bag. She was too wise to play that part. Stuart couldn’t push her around and get away with it. Armed with a Machiavellian sense of justice and fueled by resentment, Elizabeth hatched the perfect retribution plan.
She put a little ethylene glycol in his coffee a few weeks after the incident. The sweet-tasting poison caused permanent kidney damage, but in her opinion, it was simply a reminder that her husband should think twice before crossing her again.
Elizabeth’s heart raced as she remembered what she’d done. She could feel the anticipation all over again, as if it had only happened yesterday instead of many years ago.
“Served that monster right,” she said to herself as she smoothed her hands across the down comforter.
That day, Stuart learned Elizabeth was smarter and more malicious than he could ever be. She warned him to watch his back, assuring him she would always be one step ahead of him.
Perhaps she was mentally unstable. It was possible. People had called her crazy her whole life, but Elizabeth didn’t care. Maybe she was a little erratic, a bit deranged. None of that mattered. So what if she saw visions and heard voices; her premonitions were what kept her alive. Stuart Ross deserved everything he’d gotten.
Elizabeth twisted the sapphire ring on her left hand as her thoughts turned dark. Tears filled her eyes, and sadness washed over her.
“I don’t want to remember, but I have to,” she whispered in a ragged voice. “I must face it.”
Sadly, motherhood hadn’t agreed with Elizabeth. She just didn’t have the emotional capability or maternal instinct required for the tedious task of raising a child. Producing offspring was her duty, and she’d fulfilled it, but her obligation went no further than that.
Elizabeth felt no connection at all to Anna. She tried, but she believed herself incapable of such feelings. For the most part, she left the child-rearing to the maids. It was better that way.
Stuart, on the other hand, was downright cruel to their daughter. He tortured her, both emotionally and physically. There were a few times Elizabeth considered stepping in and telling her husband he was out of line, but the moments were always fleeting. Besides, Elizabeth believed hardship created strength, and she didn’t intend to be the mother of a weak daughter.
Elizabeth rarely interfered with Stuart’s parenting style, not even when he insisted they imprison their daughter and grandchild. Anna’s pregnancy was a disgrace to the family, after all, and the problem had to be taken care of. They intended to put an end to the father as well, but her daughter refused to confess his name.
Anna was only a child herself. She had no business trying to be a mother. Forcing the girl’s hand into giving up the baby had really been the only option. But their plan had backfired.
After Anna ran away with the child, Stuart had gone off the deep end. The man turned into a raving lunatic, and Elizabeth had no choice but to lock him away. He died in the mental hospital the year after Anna killed herself.
She didn’t shed a single tear over the death of her husband. She’d never felt even an ounce of love for the man. He was simply a means to an end. She wanted his wealth and power, and she’d gotten it.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Elizabeth hissed as she took a sip of her hot tea.
Placing the cup on the bedside table, she relaxed into the pillows once again. She knew
what was coming next. She knew the memories she’d unleashed. She couldn’t forget the voices.
Her own descent into the darkness began when the paintings of the ancestors throughout the house started speaking to her, telling her she had to break the curse. It made Elizabeth angry.
After all, she believed she had already broken the curse. She was the first Ross woman to live past the age of twenty-five. She was the first to give birth to a daughter instead of a son. In her mind, she had done the impossible—she had outlived a Ross man.
But the paintings wouldn’t stop talking. They laughed at her, ridiculed her, and demanded that she break the curse. When she told her doctor what was happening, he turned on her. He labeled her.
Schizophrenic.
Crazy.
Unstable.
Mad.
Insane.
“They wouldn’t listen to me,” Elizabeth muttered.
Still, the paintings spoke to her. She finally insisted the Bonaventures pack them away in the attic so she could get some peace. But peace wouldn’t come. Tranquility was always just beyond her grasp. It seemed her wickedness had finally come home to roost.
“I brought it all on myself,” she admitted.
Elizabeth began to feel remorse. She relived every horrible thing she’d done in her life, finally feeling guilt for her terrible deeds. She was consumed with regret for the way she’d treated her daughter. She’d imprisoned her own flesh and blood, torturing Anna, forcing her to flee with her young child.
She blamed herself, finally understanding that she was responsible for her daughter’s death. She was the reason Anna had committed suicide. She had perpetuated her child’s depression and mental illness. She’d been cruel, doing nothing at all to help her.
She hadn’t stepped in to stop the abuse; in fact, there were times she’d encouraged it. Elizabeth Ross was a monster, refusing her daughter the only thing she’d ever wanted—a mother.
Elizabeth knew she had to make amends before she died. It was too late to make things right with Anna. She was gone. But maybe there was another way.
She thought of her grandchild. She didn’t know if the girl had survived, or where she might be, but if she could be found, perhaps she could finally do the right thing.
“I’m here, Mrs. Ross,” Mr. Lemon said quietly as he approached her bed.
“Ah, Mr. Lemon, just the man I need to see. I have a task for you.”
“What is the task?”
“Somewhere out there, I have a granddaughter. I need you to find her.”
“Do you have any idea where she might be?”
“None at all.”
“You know nothing?”
“Anna died in Denver, Colorado. That’s all I know. Perhaps you should start there.”
“Do you have any information at all about the girl?” Mr. Lemon inquired.
“All I know is her name is Aubrey, and the last time I saw her, she looked exactly like her mother.”
“What should I do if I find her?”
“Bring her here. Bring her to Desolate Ridge. Convince her to claim her birthright.”
“What if she doesn’t want to come?”
“You must convince her. Everything belongs to her.”
“But what about—”
“Stuart will not have his way on this,” Elizabeth replied defiantly.
“You’re referring to the person he named as his beneficiary?”
“Yes, I am. They cannot inherit the Ross fortune. It’s unconscionable.”
“Stuart Ross insisted the inheritance was payment for services rendered, ma’am. He also stipulated that you did not have the authority to alter his decision. The only way to avoid it is to find a blood relative.”
“Stuart Ross is dead, and if I have anything to do with it, his lackey will die with nothing, just as my husband did.”
“I understand, ma’am.”
“Good. Find Aubrey. Get Mr. Wayfair to help you. He’s a clever man.”
“Indeed. As you wish, Mrs. Ross.”
Mr. Lemon turned on his heel and quickly exited the room, no doubt to begin the long, arduous search for Elizabeth’s long-lost granddaughter.
The wheels had been set in motion. If Elizabeth had any say in the matter, the wrongs of the past would finally be righted.
“It all ends with you, Aubrey,” she whispered as she closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
33
A week later, Aubrey was snuggled in her bed, warm beneath the down comforter, scouring the pages of The Secret Garden. The book had been her childhood favorite, and she’d found it on the bookshelf in her room. She had been happy for the discovery, especially after seeing her mother’s name written on the front page. The fact that the book had belonged to Anna made it even more special.
With a sigh, she placed the novel on the bedside table and picked up her mother’s journal. It was early in the morning, and Hank had already left for work. She knew she should try to get some sleep, but she felt restless. For the past few days, she’d known she was standing on the precipice of something big. She felt a sense of anticipation crackling in the air, although she couldn’t explain why.
After finding the records at the library and visiting the Ross family cemetery, she was more determined than ever. Day after day, she continued working to uncover the mystery. In her mind, it was all coming together. She was getting close. She could feel it. The answers were right under her nose; she just had to put the last few puzzle pieces together in order to form a complete picture.
She flipped the page in her mother’s journal and continued reading. A paragraph near the bottom of the paper practically jumped out and smacked her across the face.
I believe Desolate Ridge is cursed. The Ross family is cursed. But I know the curse can be broken. I’ve dreamed about it. I don’t know what part I’ll play in the unraveling of the evil, but somehow it has to be done. Sometimes I feel like the house is telling me what I need to do, whispering its secrets to me. The house has all of the answers.
Apparently Aubrey’s mother had felt it too. Anna had also believed Desolate Ridge held the answers required to unlock the mystery. Deep down, Aubrey knew the house was the key. Everything she’d found was because of the house. Every scrap of history she’d unearthed was because the ghosts had made sure she would find them. All the mementos that surfaced had shown up at exactly the time she’d needed to see them.
“What am I missing?”
Aubrey spoke the desperate words into the quiet of the room, her voice drifting away like a feather in the breeze. She wiggled her finger and tried to twist the sapphire ring. Glancing down, she noticed the stone was glowing, an eerie light emanating from the piece of jewelry. It squeezed her finger tightly.
Like a lightbulb turning on in her brain, she realized the ring always grew tighter right before Marie appeared.
Sure enough, she glanced into the hallway and saw Marie standing there, dressed in white, her chestnut curls cascading down her back. Aubrey’s eyes met the ghost’s, and she understood Marie was trying to tell her something. She needed to pay attention.
Rising from her bed, she walked into the hallway, her heart racing a mile a minute. Marie paused, then turned and moved toward the doorway leading to the attic. That was the last place Aubrey wanted to go, but she knew she had to follow. Marie walked through the wooden door, vanishing through it like a vapor. Aubrey gasped, swung the door open, and started up the staircase. There was something Marie wanted her to see, something she needed Aubrey to know.
Marie was behaving differently, erratically. The ghost moved quickly, rushing toward the top of the stairway. There was a sense of urgency Aubrey hadn’t felt before, so she took the stairs two at a time in an effort to keep up.
Goose bumps erupted on Aubrey’s arms, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Her eye twitched. The air was magnetically charged, trembling, vibrating with electricity. Something was happening. Aubrey felt it in her gut.
Sh
e stepped into the attic, flipping on the light in the hope of chasing away the darkness. She walked toward the middle of the room and stood next to an old rocking chair. She didn’t remember seeing it the last time she was in the attic.
Marie moved swiftly across the room and stood in front of the window. She glanced back and forth, her gaze alternating between Aubrey, the rocking chair, and the wardrobes lining the wall. The message was unclear.
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to show me, Marie.”
As Aubrey spoke, tears began to stream down Marie’s beautiful face. The ring squeezed Aubrey’s finger tightly. She looked down at her hand and noticed it was swollen, her finger nearly purple from the tightness of the jewelry.
Terrified, she grabbed the ring and tugged, trying to pull it off. She yanked and twisted, but it was no use. The ring was stuck.
“Help me, Marie. I don’t understand what’s happening.”
Aubrey also began to cry, tears rolling down her cheeks. She stared at Marie, the ghost’s face an exact replica of her own.
“Close your eyes,” Marie said quietly.
Aubrey obeyed, squeezing her eyes shut as tightly as she could. She just wanted it all to go away. She wanted to go back to her life before she’d heard of Desolate Ridge, or Rossdale, or her crazy family. She just wanted the insanity to stop.
“Sit down,” Marie instructed. “Sit down and see.”
Aubrey sank into the old chair and closed her eyes once again. She began rocking slowly, back and forth in a sort of hypnotic rhythm. As she did, she felt the weight of an infant in her arms. The weight grew heavier, and soon she smelled the sweet scent of the baby’s skin. She heard his steady, even breathing.
Aubrey opened her eyes and looked at the small baby cradled close to her chest. She softly hummed a lullaby, a tune she didn’t recognize but seemed to instinctively know.
She stroked the baby’s back, and the large sapphire ring glinted. She touched her mouth to the child’s head, kissing him softly and feeling his downy hair beneath her lips. She jumped as the door creaked open behind her, wincing as she heard his heavy footsteps tromping across the room.
