The Bell House

by Lori Titus

  The Bell House

  By Lori Titus

  Also by Lori Titus

  A Marradith Ryder Series Novella

  The Culling

  Soul Bonded

  Soul Bonded

  The Marradith Ryder Series

  Hunting in Closed Spaces

  The Art of Shadows

  The Moon Goddess: A Marradith Ryder Series Novella

  Standalone

  Blood Relations

  The Bell House

  The Guardians of Man: Black Feathers Fell in the Foothills of Mt. Empyreal

  Marradith, Darkly: A Marradith Ryder Series Novella

  Chrysalis Lights

  Watch for more at Lori Titus’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Also By Lori Titus

  Also by Lori Titus:

  In Loving Memory of Tony Smith. | For Jim and Walter, who carry on.

  Behold, | I shew you a mystery; we shall not all sleep, | But we shall all be changed. | 1 Corinthians 15:51

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Fall, 1967

  Chapter Seven

  Two Local Teens Killed Saturday Night in Tragic Crash

  Alcohol Involved in Deaths of Local Teens Ahmad Bell Emerson and Jonathan Soltero

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Part Four | Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Acknowledgments

  Sign up for Lori Titus's Mailing List

  About the Author

  Also by Lori Titus:

  The Vampire Diaries: The Bennett Witch Chronicles, Chrysalis Lights

  Blood Relations

  Hunting in Closed Spaces:The Marradith Ryder Series, Book 1

  The Art of Shadows: The Marradith Ryder Series, Book 2

  Lazarus

  Hailey’s Shadow

  With Crystal Connor, (Under the Pen Name Connor Titus):

  The Guardians of Man

  The End is Now

  Copyright © 2015 Lori Titus

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted by the 1976 Copyright Act or the publisher.

  Any similarities to any person(s), living or dead, is purely coincidental, and unintentional. This is a work of fiction.

  In Loving Memory of Tony Smith.

  For Jim and Walter, who carry on.

  Behold,

  I shew you a mystery; we shall not all sleep,

  But we shall all be changed.

  1 Corinthians 15:51

  Prologue

  Summer, 1956

  Chrysalis, South Carolina

  Willow Branom was promised to Travis Bell’s bother, Jeremiah.

  Travis couldn’t be sure, but he thought that may have been the first thing that attracted him to her. She had skin like Georgia clay, amber eyes, and black hair that hung down her back. Jeremiah bragged about her: how smart she was; how beautiful. He’d met her in Charleston, where she had a position as a teacher at the local colored school. The plan was that she would live in the Bell’s guesthouse until he came home from a job he was taking down in Florida. He’d work long hours on one last construction job out of town to bring home some money for the wedding dress she deserved.

  If Jeremiah had known what was good for him, he would have wed her at the Justice of Peace. He would have made love to his new wife and gotten her pregnant before he left town. Jeremiah was a braggart, always so sure of himself and all that belonged to him, so he left the girl alone with an engagement ring. Alone in the little house by the creek where they planned to live together once they were man and wife.

  Travis watched Willow. He wondered what it must be like for her—alone each night, sleeping with the sound of water flowing through the creek beneath her bedroom window. He imagined what it would be like to touch her skin, to twine his fingers through her hair. He imagined the touch of her lips and wondered if they would taste salty or sweet. Sometimes he heard her singing when she hung clothes on the line in the backyard, her voice strong and smooth like a good drink.

  He found it hard to disguise his interest. There was something about her. Some thirst beneath the surface that Travis wanted to quench.

  She had to be lonely.

  Willow came up to the front house one afternoon looking for Mother Kamila, offering to help with Sunday dinner. Travis told her to come in. He said that Mother asked that she peel some potatoes and that she had gone to the store for some last minute things. Willow’s eyes slid away from his as she entered, nervously smoothing her skirt.

  Standing in front of the window, he watched as she stared out at the trees, her little pink dress pressing so sweetly against her dark skin. He sat at the kitchen table drinking his coffee, gazing at her body. She was the perfect hourglass.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Do what?” he feigned innocence.

  “Stare.”

  “Oh. That,” He said.

  He stood up and, with a gentle touch, cupped her bottom in his hands. “Should I do this instead?”

  She turned, and he pressed himself hard against her so that she was pinned between him and the sink. He made sure that he placed his pelvis just where she could feel his erection. There was something like fear in her eyes, but he smiled down at her. He kissed her mouth deeply, and to his delight, she kissed him back. Her breath caught as their lips parted, and then she turned away, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. She ignored him as if nothing important had happened.

  DINNER THAT NIGHT WAS an uncomfortable affair. Willow kept her eyes on her plate, pretending to be shy. When Kamila asked why she hadn’t spoken much, she said that she was feeling weary and wanted to go lie down.

  Travis bided his time. A half hour passed before he slipped out of the back door.

  As he guessed, she was waiting for him amongst the trees at the back of the property where they were shielded from view of either house.

  “How did you know?” she asked breathlessly once he reached her. He touched her face, brushing away stands of hair that fell across her cheek.

  Travis smiled. His body was hot, burning from his loins and through his blood.

  “Where else would you be?” he whispered.

  He kissed her hard, holding her again. When his tongue stroked her neck, he heard her sigh, and he laughed with the pleasure of knowing she wanted him.

  His hand traveled up her leg and down into the smooth skin beneath her dress. She stiffened. He felt her sense of fear, a surge that passed out of her and into him.

  “Oh hush, baby,” he whispered. He began to move his hand up and down. He pressed, pushing up until he felt her virgin body break beneath the pressure of his hand.

  Her sigh was deeper this time, animal. Her knees gave way, and she would have fallen if he had not been holding her. Somehow, she managed to untangle herself.

  “I... I shouldn’t... ” she stuttered.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Travis grinned. “You’re my woman now.”

  She ran from the clearing.

  Travis looked down at his hand, feeling wetness.

  Willow’s bl
ood.

  A WEEK PASSED, AND Travis wondered if she would tell anyone. As he had guessed, she did not. When he told her that he would meet her again, under the trees, she gave him a look of trepidation, but he saw the spark in her eyes.

  At the appointed time, she was waiting.

  HE KISSED AND TOUCHED her again over the course of several nights before she finally left the door of her house open for him.

  Travis waited past midnight before making the short journey to Willow’s house. She gave him all that he wanted, seemed ready to try any dirty thing that he asked. They never spoke of Jeremiah or what would happen if anyone found out, but Travis preferred it that way.

  IT ENDED ONE MORNING as suddenly as it all began.

  Travis went downstairs for breakfast. His mother’s voice rang through the air, and the smell of eggs and sausage cooking on the stove enticed him.

  The soft voice that replied to Mother’s was Willow’s. Travis smiled as he rounded the hallway into the kitchen. What he saw next made him stop in his tracks. Jeremiah sat at the table with a newspaper in front of him, legs crossed, and a cup of coffee in his left hand.

  “WELL, GOOD MORNING to you too, Travis,” Kamila said sternly. “Aren’t you going to welcome your brother home?”

  Jeremiah looked up from his paper and nodded dismissively. “Yeah, I’m used to it, Mother.”

  Travis looked at Willow. She stood at the counter beside the coffee pot. There was a cup in front of her, but it looked like she hadn’t touched it. He didn’t miss the discomfort in her posture, the way she had pressed her back against the kitchen wall, making herself as small as possible.

  Kamila stood at the stove, and her eyes, dark and knowing, settled on Travis like a hawk. “Food’s done, Travis. Get yourself a plate.”

  He opened the cabinet, reaching past Willow for a cup and a plate. She didn’t flinch, but he thought it took effort—she bit her lip.

  “Are you back to stay?” Travis asked his brother.

  Jeremiah took his time folding up his newspaper, making noise and avoiding eye contact while he did. “Well, sort of.”

  “What’s that mean? Either you’re here or you aren’t.”

  Willow moved. She went and sat at the table next to Jeremiah. He put his hand on her thigh, patted her knee.

  “We’ve been talking, and we’re going to put down on a house of our own. There is a place my buddy’s family has been trying to sell, and they are willing to give it to me for a song. It’s a fixer upper, but it will be nice once I can get some work done on it.”

  Travis found the sugar bowl and spooned some into his coffee. “Really? What made you come to that decision?”

  “I was trying to explain,” Kamila interrupted, “that if they stay here for at least a few months after the wedding, they can save for a better place. Somewhere closer. Something newer than that ramshackle house he’s talking about.”

  Jeremiah shrugged. Ignoring his mother’s comment, he answered Travis’ instead. “Well, you don’t know what it’s like to have responsibilities, Travis. Maybe you’ll be engaged one day, and then you’ll understand.”

  “Is that right?” Travis’ voice was low, but both the women in the room looked up at him. Only Jeremiah seemed unaffected by the tension in the air.

  “Yes,” Jeremiah said. He grinned at his younger brother.

  “Before you go making all these grand plans, you might want to make sure that your fiancée is actually the marrying type.”

  “Travis . . . !” Willow choked.

  “What are you talking about?” Jeremiah’s eyes lit with anger.

  “Oh, you mean she didn’t tell you?” Travis said, his lips spreading in a grin. “It’s really sweet, you know, how she moans when she gives it up. But maybe you don’t bring that out in her.”

  Travis saw his brother’s eyes widen, felt the movement of air as Jeremiah lunged at him. The first punch caught him unprepared, but then they were in the throes of it. Jeremiah was rock hard and taller, but Travis held his own until he was knocked onto the floor.

  Jeremiah straddled him and started beating him to a pulp.

  Travis could not get loose of his brother, but he fought until Jeremiah screamed.

  KAMILA HAD DONE THE only thing she could think of to keep her sons from killing each other. She reached for a pot of lukewarm water, but instead, grabbed the skillet and poured hot oil down Jeremiah’s back.

  He went to the hospital, and Kamila went with him. Before she left, she took one look back at her destroyed kitchen and Willow, who stood there in shock.

  “Have that woman out of my house before I get back,” she hissed at Travis, and then, with a superior tilt of her head, she was gone.

  Before he could even turn, Willow was out the back door, running across the yard to her house. Travis followed.

  “Willow, wait.”

  She turned on her heel and punched him. However, her blow was nothing compared to Jeremiah’s, and he laughed.

  “My brother already pounded my jaw. I can’t feel shit on that side of my face right now.”

  “Why did you tell him? How can you laugh? Don’t you understand what you’ve done?”

  “Were you really going to leave here with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I don’t care what you do. You heard my mother. She wants you gone.”

  They were standing at the top of the stone steps that led down to the guesthouse. With her hands on her hips, Willow faced him with anger he had never seen in her eyes before.

  “You really are a sad excuse for a man, aren’t you? You didn’t really want me. You just didn’t want Jeremiah to have anyone.”

  “So what? You wanted it. You couldn’t get enough of it.”

  He turned away from her then. He heard Willow’s heels click against the stone as she ran away from him.

  There was no scream, only a mutter, but he heard the impact of her fall.

  WHEN TRAVIS REACHED Willow, she was dead. She’d fallen down the steps and tumbled onto a jagged stone.

  Her neck was snapped.

  THE TREES SHIELDED him from eyes that might have seen his dirty work.

  There was rope in a shed out back—and a ladder. It took longer than he would have liked. Travis tried to place her in as graceful way as he could. Over and over, he whispered apologies. Her body grew ever colder to his touch. Tears came to his eyes, but he hastily wiped them away. Around him the morning was deadly silent. No bird calls, no wind. Only the screams that wanted to escape from his mouth but found no release.

  The police wouldn’t much care about the passing of a Negro girl, especially one that had been unfaithful to her man. Was it so hard to believe that she would take her own life? Her reputation was ruined. A suicide under these conditions would draw less attention than an accident.

  It was Kamila who found the body the next day. She would later tell others the shock it was to find Willow that way—the elongation of her neck, toes pointed to the ground, limbs swaying with the humid breeze. Travis remembered her differently. To him, she was a lovely sleeping angel with dark hair surrounding her face in a widow’s veil. Her lips puckered, pink, and as innocent as the day he first met her.

  Chapter One

  Present Day, Winter.

  Chrysalis, South Carolina

  My name is Diana Bell.

  I went to the funeral of my sister’s husband. I could barely reach her with the gaggle of people around. They came in their shiny BMWs, men wearing suits, little women wearing heels and too-tight skirts under their tailored blazers.

  I hate bourgeois black folk.

  My sister looked dazed, like a drowning swimmer not sure which strokes will pull her up to the surface for air.

  Jenna is my half-sister, and we share one bond now. We’re both motherless.

  Jenna had her mother a lot longer than I did. Mine came in and out of my life like a ghost with blurred eyes that laughed hard and screamed too easily. Even when she was alive, my mother w
as pushing the edges of everything. Life. Enjoyment. Pain. And in the end it got her, and then she was gone.

  I’m told Jenna took care of her mother, Louise, through two bouts of cancer and the eventual destruction that followed. In the end, the old woman had been so bad that she couldn’t walk, could barely see, and didn’t remember anything other than her daughter.

  Good for her, I thought. It means the old bitch got what she deserved.

  I approached carefully from the sidelines. I told my husband to wait for me in the car. I didn’t want to stay long and honestly did not know how Jenna was going to react to seeing me. We’d had a nice talk on the phone. She’d been all sweetness and light, but I thought that couldn’t be real. Not after putting her mother in the ground and turning around to lose everything that she ever had, including her husband, in a fire not much more than a year later . . . People’s skin gets thin during grief, and I suspected she would not be so happy to see me in person.

  I smoked a cigarette and wondered how she coped. Losing a house was a big enough injury. Losing your husband was worse. I wondered if she lay awake at night thinking about how he died. When I asked her on the phone if there was a cause of the death that was pinpointed, she quietly told me that the coroner ruled he’d died of smoke inhalation. He was long gone before the fire ever touched him, she said. Yeah, right. That’s some bullshit. That motherfucker went to his death screaming and writhing in pain. I asked, carefully, about the smoke detectors in the house. Didn’t they go off? Jenna lived in the nice part of town. I couldn’t imagine they lived without a simple thing like a smoke detector. But I didn’t say so.

  By the time anyone heard the alarm, Jenna said, it was just too late. Something about electrical wiring smoldering quietly in the walls. Toxic fumes gathered in the air before there was enough smoke to trigger the alarm.