 
# Specter

RM Brand

Published by RM Brand at Smashwords

_Copyright 2013 RM Brand_

_Discover other titles by RM Brand at Smashwords.com at_ <https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/rmbrand>

To my late grandmother,  
Rosa Maria Menendez Beltran.

_1916 to 2003_  
Though you are not here, you are still in my heart, never forgotten.

### Part 1 – Phantoms

## Chapter One

I remember the first time my father told me of Carrington Manor. It was late one autumn evening, the air was thick with the threat of rain. My mother had died the prior week, two days after my fifth birthday. A year later, her radiance still haunted every corner of our home. When I asked my father why God had taken her away, he bitterly whispered, "Cursed."

My father and I lived in the backside of a house at the center of a sleepy town near the Blue Ridge Mountains. The house was part of a legacy left over from my grandfather who specialized in rare and odd collectibles, some claimed to be tied to the supernatural. It was an antique bazaar with stories that could fill a library.

My arms tightened around the stuffed dog my mother had given me last Christmas. As a child with the limited understanding that comes from spending little time on this Earth, I believed him and feared what God would do because of this curse.

He sat on the edge of my bed holding a picture of an old Victorian house. "You must never go to Carrington Manor, Hettie," he warned. His eyes were fixed on a young woman at one of the windows who had the same look of sadness as my father.

I pointed to the woman, remembering that my mother had also lost her mother at a young age. "Is that Mommy's Mommy?"

"No," he replied. "She was the one who cursed us."

Even as he spoke those words, I could smell my mother's perfume, something that had faded days after her death. I wanted to believe she was there, just like the priest at the funeral had said. Maybe she came to protect us, but nobody could stop God, especially if there was a curse involved.

My heart pounded in my chest as though it feared ghostly claws would carve it out. "I don't want God to take us," I muttered, afraid.

My father held me.

"Don't worry, Hettie. I won't let that happen, not for a long time anyway."

We stared at one another in the dim lamp light of that humble room, seeking comfort that didn't come.

"Promise me that you will never go to this house," he urged again.

My gaze fell to the woman at the window. I felt for the first time in my life the fiery bite of hatred. "I promise."

I lied.

## Chapter Two

Carrington Manor majestically stood at the edge of a forbidding coastline, where the sea turned to sand until it reached the hill where the house lay. Despite the wind and the sea, the manor had persevered to become one of the most elegant and historic landmarks in the South.

The property and house was abandoned for decades. Weeds choked the life out of whatever green there was, only overshadowed by the pervasive rose bushes that grew unrestrained. Now they served as thorny defenses to keep intruders at bay. Tucked within this natural prison stood a pair of stone benches adorned with time worn, grimy faced, cherubs beckoning the weary passerby to stop and rest.

I looked around me, the melancholy state of the place reminded me of my promise to my father. He passed away last month and I ran across the picture he had shown me long ago.

"You must never go there," his warning echoed in my head.

History tends to repeat itself, so I decided to break from the family tradition of accepting our "cursed" state to face the demons that haunted us.

My father preferred to hide among his antiquities, I was interested in places and people. I traveled the world as a buyer of artifacts and curios that ended up on display at museums and private collections. It wasn't that my father didn't appreciate the story behind the item. For him, it was about the secrets they held. In fact, every item in his shop had an identity—a person, a place, or an event tied to it that made it unique. But there was an unsettling corollary. They were cursed. Each time he sold one of his treasures, he made sure the new owner understood what he was buying and the legacy tied to the object. Invariably the item would find itself back into my father's hands and back on the store shelf. I inherited these precious items full of mystery after his death.

I hadn't thought of Carrington Manor until I received the phone call. I remember feeling as though a weight had been lifted from me when I received the news he had passed away. It is a terrible thing to say, but I felt relieved. I loved my father, but too much had not been said or done after my mother's passing. He simply didn't know how to be both a father and a mother. As I grew older, we grew further apart until the only occasions we spoke were on Christmas and birthdays. So I was surprised to receive a letter from him a few days before his death. He wanted to speak to me in person about our family and its history.

Much to my surprise, I learned that he had agreed to appraise the value of the Carrington estate and all its furnishings. I took this as a sign of hope that maybe he was coming around, that he would finally admit the curse was a farce and face his grief.

I decided to do this one thing for him—out of guilt for not being there during his passing, to be honest—and do the job myself. I grew up working in his shop and knew the business well enough. My connections as a buyer would come in handy given the current owner of the estate intended to sell everything and demolish the house for redevelopment.

"Miss Nelson...?" Mrs. Schroder, an older willowy woman who introduced herself as the property manager, asked me a question.

"Please, call me Hettie," I responded. "And I apologize. I am so enthralled by the estate that I missed your question."

She looked at me in shock, as though I had just uttered an expletive. "You like the place?"

I turned back to the manor, a palatial Victorian structure with some Mediterranean influence, specifically the broad terrace on the second floor, and nodded.

Mrs. Schroder seemed relieved, even overjoyed. "There are a few things to consider, if you decide to take the job."

I turned to the woman. "And they are?"

"The electricity is faulty, so the owner has switched it off. You will have to use oil lamps at night. The furnace no longer works, but there is plenty of firewood for your use. I suggest sleeping in the master suite, which has a fireplace. The plumbing works, but don't drink from the tap. And, there are no phones. Mobile service is sketchy at best and you will have to use your car to charge it, I imagine."

My eyes wandered back to the manor as she spoke. Despite the conditions, I kept thinking of my father's warning, the look of fear in his eyes that mirrored the one I felt as a child. Whatever haunted my father was somehow connected to this place. I was able to find peace in my own life though my work. I wanted to give him that, so he could experience in spirit what he couldn't in life—that there is good in the world.

"Is there anything else?" I asked, anxious to begin.

She hesitated and nervously glanced back to the manor.

I turned to where she was looking. A breeze shifted the curtains at one of the windows. I turned back around in time to see the woman shiver.

When she realized I was staring at her, she forced a smile but the fear in her eyes was unmistakable. "Access to the basement is strictly prohibited. Now, I see a twinkle in your eyes, but before you get carried away with curiosity, it is nothing extraordinary. He simply has a few personal items in there, mostly boxes, which he will go through before the house is demolished. All he asks is that you keep the rest of the place as tidy as possible so that rats don't settle in."

"I understand, Mrs. Schroder," I said, feeling emboldened by her apprehension. It reminded me of my father. He let his fear control his life, but I would not allow it to control mine.

"Good." The woman glanced back at the manor. A haunted gaze passed over her face. "Be careful when you're in there."

"The structure looks solid to me," I remarked, trying to be practical to allay her concerns.

The woman shook her head to dispel whatever it was bothering her and fumbled in her purse to pull out a key. "The demolition is schedule to start in one month. Mr. Carrington wishes to have everything out in three weeks." As she handed me the key, she hesitated.

I asked, "Is there anything else I should know?"

She seemed to struggle to find the words. Finally, she dismissed it with a shake of her head and released her hold on the key. "Just stay out of the basement. A trailer will be sent in tomorrow afternoon."

"What about the owner?" I asked. "Won't he need a place to sleep when he visits?"

"He won't come. You'll be alone." Mrs. Schroder met my gaze. "Is that a problem?"

I smiled within, knowing I would have full access to the house to do my research. I shook my head.

Her eyes strayed to the manor again.

I took advantage of the break to add the key to an empty key ring. "Thank you for the opportunity," I felt compelled to say, since the woman had given me the job without as much as checking my references or employment history. My father's reputation as a collector and trader of unique antiquities was probably good enough for her. At least, that is what I thought.

Mrs. Schroder nodded in response and began walking towards her charcoal colored Mercedes. She stopped as she opened the car door and said, "If you can manage to fulfill our agreement with your sanity still intact, it is you we will be thanking." She got in and then looked up at one of the manor's upstairs windows. She mumbled something to herself before turning the key and heading out.

I started towards the house and glanced up to the window with the fluttering curtains, but then stopped.

The doors and windows were all closed.

## Chapter Three

There was still plenty of daylight, so I went inside to do a preliminary inspection of the house.

Unlike typical Victorian homes, there was more functionality in each room as though the original architect knew of the technologies that would take the world over. The only exception was a parlor situated next to the dining room. It was the only room where the furniture was not covered in dust cloths. It was clear that they had been crafted in mahogany specifically for this house, using the same cherub motifs I had seen on the benches outside. Their expressions were turned upward, as though greeting the observer with a smile. The details were exquisite, down to the fine lines in their wings. Satyrs danced and played with the little cherubs as a father would his child. Despite the display of gaiety, I sensed a lugubrious malaise envelop me. I couldn't put my finger on exactly where it came from or what it was, only that it was as palpable as the hardwood floor against my high-heel shoes.

A grand fireplace stood at the center of the inner-wall with an impressive mantle that carried the same motifs, however, this time the satyrs were protecting the cherubs from the nonexistent flames of the firebox.

Windows lined the opposite wall. Only slivers of light peeked through the heavy curtains, but it was enough for me to see the luxurious yet imposing nature of the room. I drew back each curtain, which immediately filled the room with the brilliant afternoon sunlight. It appeared far more cheerful and elegant now.

I caught a glimpse of the kitchen through the doorway where ornate hinges still adorned the frame. There was a huge and old wood burning stove and plenty of counter space and cupboards.

I made my way out of the parlor and down the corridor where the outline of paintings stained the walls. I came to a mostly empty, large conservatory. The tools of the cleaning crew were strewn all over the floor, giving evidence to a hasty retreat. The smell of decaying plants and flowers permeated the air. I opened what windows I could to air out the room and made a mental note to return to pick up the mess. I then decided to go upstairs.

There were fully furnished bedrooms on the second and third floors. The large master suite took most of the third floor, opening to a grand terrace that offered a panoramic view of the ocean. Inside the bedroom and set between the wood panels lining the walls were carvings of satyrs cavorting and playing lyres and flutes. The creatures were facing the large four-post bed centered on one wall. Above the connubial cradle was the carving of a large Venus, swathed in diaphanous wrappings that did little to hide the voluptuous curves of her body. The worshipful satyrs surrounded her bearing gifts as tokens of their devotion. The adjoining dressing rooms carried the themes of the Venus in one room and the satyr in the other.

I opened the set of double doors that opened to the terrace and stepped outside. A pair of defaced cherubs stood in the corners of the terrace on which someone had etched sinister smiles. I couldn't help frowning at the desecration of such beauty.

The wind was blowing, enough to bite my skin, so I went back inside and locked the doors.

I went downstairs, going from room to room, and removed dust cloths off the furniture to get a better feel of the place. This was my father's favorite part, which he called "the connection."

I entered one of the smaller rooms on the second floor. The Jacobean wardrobe had intricate detailed carvings of cherubs and I allowed myself to reminisce about my father.

I could almost picture him gasping with delight, as he would unravel the history of the item simply by looking at it. He would go through the inspection with patience, even delicate tenderness as if handling the belongings of a lost loved one.

I closed my eyes to savor the moment. When I opened them, I could almost see him there, on one knee and looking back up at me with a smile. My eyes filled with tears and I dismissed my emotions by getting back to work.

There was the usual wear and tear of time and use on the objects in the house, including this wardrobe, but fortunately, the owners had been very careful to preserve it. The drawers and doors were in excellent condition. There was a bit of dust that had collected in the grooves of the carvings, but that only added to its charm. I was inspecting the back when I heard one of the doors in the corridor creak.

Thinking that perhaps Mrs. Schroder had returned, I stepped out into the corridor and said, "I am in here."

There was no answer. The house was deathly quiet.

I checked each room on that floor, but there was no one there. I went upstairs and then downstairs without success.

I eventually found the creaking door on the second level. Inside the room was a wooden chest with a smaller version of the same Venus carved on the lid. Inside, I found a handmade quilt and an antique silver grooming set used by women from the turn of the last century. The silver was tarnished but a good polish would return its luster. There was a snuffbox next to a music box that still worked and played _Clair de Lune_ in perfect pitch, a set of embroidered handkerchiefs with the letter C, and a pair of baby shoes that had been gold plated. They were neatly arranged within the chest not so much to preserve them but to cherish them.

I carefully removed the items to inspect the bottom of the chest. Under the quilt was a bunch of faded letters tied with red ribbon that appeared to have been written long ago. They were love letters written to a woman by the name of Sarah, back when horses were the means of transportation and men traveled far and wide for business. Mr. Carrington promised to be home by the next season, with gifts in hand, and offered endearments only men who are truly in love would murmur to their beloved. It was signed _William_.

I felt my cheeks flush as if I had been caught prying at their private and intimate lives, and quickly returned the items back into the chest. I realized then that the chest did not belong in this room. The cherubs stared at me in awe...or perhaps aghast at my intrusion. The chest belonged in the master suite, in the dressing room. No sooner I closed the lid, when the door to the room slammed shut.

At first, I was too startled to do anything, until my senses returned and I stood up.

I suspected that someone was inside the house toying with me. I tried to open the door but it wouldn't budge as if it were locked. "Open this door at once!" I demanded.

I heard the agonizing cries of a cat coming from outside.

The sound made my blood run cold.

I ran to the window and as I looked down I saw what seemed to be an animal on the dirt below.

Its limbs had been severed and its eyes had been gouged out. The poor creature writhed in pain in a pool of its own blood.

I rushed to the door and yanked at the knob, but it wouldn't give. I searched the room for anything I could use to smash the knob off. There was nothing I could find, so I fumbled through my purse for my small toolkit when my mobile phone rang.

It was Mrs. Schroder.

I quickly answered it.

"...slow down," she told me. "Are you hurt?"

"I am in one of the bedrooms and the door has been locked," I repeated with exasperation.

"There are no locks on the doors," she insisted.

"Then it is wedged shut and I can't get outside to the cat..." I realized then that the wails of the poor creature had stopped.

I went to the window and looked down. It was nowhere in sight and there was no sign of any blood.

Behind me the door creaked open.

"...Miss Nelson..."

I didn't hear the rest as I slowly turned around. The door was ajar, but I could see no one.

"Miss Nelson!"

"I'm here," I replied.

"What's going on?"

"I'm not sure," was all I could say.

I was surprised to hear her urge, "You must get out of that house."

My eyes went to the chest and I felt drawn to it. Something in those letters had struck my attention, even charmed me. These objects once belonged to the man and the woman in the letters. I needed to know what happened to that couple.

"There is no need for me to leave," I said. "The door is now open."

"But the trailer..."

When she didn't elaborate I asked, "What about the trailer?"

"Didn't you hear me explain what happened?"

"I'm sorry, but no."

Mrs. Schroder sighed and repeated the tale.

According to police, the driver of the truck towing her temporary accommodations had been in a terrible accident that landed him in the hospital and wrecked both truck and trailer beyond repair. Someone had darted across the bridge where he had been traveling and he lost control of the wheel as he swerved trying to avoid hitting the person. The truck drove off the bridge and fell into a deep ravine. The driver is in critical condition and not expected to live. She knew the family of the driver and naturally was very upset.

I swallowed hard and offered my condolences. It sounded like a bromide to my own ears, but what I felt was sincere. I knew what it was to lose a loved one, and I prayed that his family wouldn't have to know such pain.

"It will be days before another trailer can be delivered to you," Mrs. Schroder informed me.

"I see."

"There is a motel in a small town about an hour away, if you are certain you wish to continue," she said. "But I understand if you decide to cancel our agreement."

"Not at all," I said. "I can stay inside the house."

There was a long pause on the other line. "If...if you do, I cannot vouch for your safety, Miss Nelson. I'll remind you that mobile service isn't reliable there. It was a miracle I was able to reach you at all just now."

"I understand, but you needn't worry." Although it would be sensible to walk away, I was determined to continue. Whatever was happening here, whoever was hiding in the shadows, needed my help. Besides, I most likely had worked myself into a panic for no apparent reason. There had to be a rational explanation. The door probably slammed shut because of a strong draft. Maybe a flue was left open or a window wasn't shut properly. After all, I had left the conservatory windows open. And the vision of the cat could be from the lack of sleep I had been experiencing recently.

The conversation soon ended and I made my way outside to my car to get my things. Although my mind was going over the logistics of staying at a place without electricity and hot water, my feet were taking me around the back of the house to the place where I saw the cat.

I crouched down and inspected the earth and dry grass covering the area separating the house from the gardens. There was no trace of blood anywhere.

I shook my head at my foolishness and rose. I needed to call an inspector to have the house tested for mold or noxious chemicals that could cause hallucinations.

I turned around when something sticking out of the grass caught my attention.

It was a few feet further away from the house, under a dead bush. I bent down and moved the dry grass away to expose a narrow bone. It could have been from a small dog or a cat, I couldn't tell. There was another bone right next to it. It appeared as though it had been severed right at the joint.

I separated the grass further to reveal more animal bones of various sizes. Deep cuts ran across and along some of the bones. I wouldn't have given it a second thought until I inspected them thoroughly. The bones didn't appear to be the discarded pieces left by a butcher, but the remains of something far more ritualistic and gruesome.

## Chapter Four

The next few days went on without incident. I managed to catalog the items on the first floor of the house. I determined that the conservatory was far too much work for just one person, so I scheduled an appointment to have it cleaned out. The work took the entire day, but the crew removed the plants and bushes, leaving only the ornate stonework throughout.

The next day, the inspector came. He could not find any conclusive evidence of mold, but he didn't rule out the possibility it could be inside the walls. Without a full inspection, given neither of us had access to the locked basement, he suggested leaving the windows open and staying outside as much as possible.

I received another call from Mrs. Schroder explaining that the replacement trailer had been damaged while in transport. Apparently it had unhitched from its base and rolled several miles down the road before the driver even realized what happened. By now, I knew how to work the wood stove and had confirmed that there was plenty of wood for the fireplace to keep me warm. Returning to a life where the hours of a day were measured by the rising of the sun was a bit daunting, as was reading by candlelight. But these seemed like minor inconveniences compared to the satisfaction of completing the work at hand.

That night I made myself some tea using one of the kettles I found in the pantry. I set my cup down, along with a plate of cookies, on the round table next to the leather wingback chair by the fireplace. The night was cold, so I built a strong fire to keep me warm. With a candle in hand, I went to the room I had been sleeping in, the same one with the chest I had now come to love and even considered purchasing myself, to retrieve my book and went back downstairs to settle down for a long read.

The chair was comfortable and cozy and soon I was languishing in the warmth from the fireplace when I reached over for my cup of tea.

It wasn't there.

I turned to the table and saw that my plate of cookies was also gone. My brow rose as I wondered if the mold was getting to me and I only assumed I had made tea.

I got up, picked up the candle, and went to the kitchen to where I had set the kettle. There was only water left for another cup, so I poured myself some tea and grabbed a few more cookies. I looked around the parlor, trying to make out the shadows of objects beyond the glow of the firelight coming from the hearth to make sure I had not lost my mind. I wasn't sure what I expected to find, but there was nothing out of place.

This time when I set them down, I immediately began drinking the tea and eating the cookies. After I was satisfied I began reading my book and shortly, I was immersed in the story. Although I had read the book many times before, Dumas never failed to carry me away with his romantic tales and adventures. Even so, my eyelids grew heavy and I fell asleep.

I woke up with a start several hours later.

The fire still burned in the fireplace, but the candle had snuffed itself out. I got up to take my dishes into the kitchen when I nearly stumbled to the floor. I looked down to see that a quilt had fallen to my feet. I didn't even remember putting one on my legs and quickly picked it up, folded it, and laid it over the back of the chair. I turned to the table to pick up the dirty dishes when I saw that not only was there one dish, but two empty dishes, as well as two empty teacups.

I drew in a sharp breath. Someone was indeed in the house.

I lit the candle again and picked up my cell phone to call the police and Mrs. Schroder. I had charged the mobile phone in my car earlier that day, but when I picked it up, I saw that the battery was dead. Under the light of a sickle moon, I hurried to my car to hook it up and, when I turned the key, there was only a click. I fumbled for my flashlight in the glove compartment and unlatched the hood. When I looked under the car hood, the battery was gone.

## Chapter Five

I slept inside my car that night with one hand on the axe I found in the stables, which I placed on the passenger's seat. The gray of morning arrived, but I remained in the car until the sun was near its zenith.

I reentered the house, clutching the axe with both hands.

The dishes were in the kitchen basin where I had left them. The candle, which had snuffed out before it could be entirely consumed by the flame, sat on the counter next to my book.

I went room to room in search of the practical joker, which I hoped was simply a vagrant seeking refuge from the elements and not someone more threatening. Given that my battery had been removed, I was leaning towards the 'ominous' argument and braced myself for a fight.

The parlor was the same, the fire having burnt out sometime during the night, but the other rooms had been changed. The furniture had been rearranged which actually suited the rooms much better. I suspected that this was their original positions, when the house was occupied, based on indentations in the wood floor.

I crept up the stairs to the second story, the wood occasionally creaked under my feet as I checked each room ever vigilant of any movement. There too I saw the furniture had been rearranged and the chest, which once sat at the foot of the bed where I slept, was gone. I eventually found it back in the master suite where nothing had changed other than the chest was now in full display. The doors of the wardrobe were open, depicting a carved relief of a Greek scene with ivy columns, more satyrs, and even a few nymphs. A tall washstand stood on a pedestal carved to look like a tree. Over the washstand, figures of satyrs held an oval mirror which stared at the would-be gazer. Several nymphs stretched away from the satyrs that shackled them with their arms. The pitcher that sat inside the basin appeared to be original to the piece.

I felt transported to another time, when the house was filled with an opulence that offered a life of comfort and joviality. I glanced inside the dressing room where the chest had been placed and saw the grooming kit had been laid out on the vanity.

I went inside and brushed my fingers over the polished silver objects that gleamed from the rays of sunlight seeping in through a side window. Whoever was the lady that used these objects, she must have been treated as a queen, for I had only seen royalty own such beautiful things.

I thought of the woman in the letter and smiled. She had been loved by a great man.

The rest of my investigation proved conclusively that all the items in the house had been set in their proper place by unseen hands. The exception was the conservatory, which was completely empty. The windows were still open.

I considered the notion that someone could have slipped through, though their intentions were not clear yet. However, I found no proof that someone was in fact there. I closed all the windows, just in case, and made my way back into the corridor heading towards the parlor. I stopped midway in frozen panic.

None of the portraits had been put back up, as I would have suspected. Their absence was puzzling. I then began to smell something foul in the air. It wasn't coming from the conservatory. It seemed to linger there, right at the bottom of the stairwell. It seemed to shift, becoming stronger near the locked basement door.

It occurred to me that the intruder was hiding in there.

I tightened my grip on the axe and slowly approached the door. The knob turned and I realized the door was locked from the outside. I slowly breathed a sigh of relief.

The parlor was quiet, as was the rest of the house. An occasional gust of wind made the whole house moan in protest. I turned around to head out of the parlor and go upstairs to ready myself for the long trek to the one-gas-station town. I noticed one of the wall panels that led to another room had been opened. It was a secret room.

As I entered, I was immediately struck by the number of books that filled the wall-to-wall shelves. It was clearly a man's study, with a formidable desk that sat at the center of the room. A smaller version of the fireplace in the parlor stood at the head of the room, flanked by two large bronze statues of satyrs, one playing a flute and the other a lyre. There was a light, aged patina on the statues, but I could still see my reflection in sections of the bronze.

The old books, which were mostly first and second editions, were organized in alphabetical order by author. One book lay on the center of the table. It was a Dumas novel, The Count of Monte Cristo. A ribbon bookmark marked a line of text.

" _It's necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live."_

I wasn't sure what it meant. It could be a threat and it was possible the person who did this and the intruder was one and the same.

I felt someone watching me. My head began to pound and pressure began to build in my chest, as though something was oppressively bearing down on me. I could barely breathe.

I left the study, grabbed my purse and ran out of the house as fast as I could and called the police.

## Chapter Six

The police found no one in the house, not even in the basement after they broke the lock to gain entry. Stacked boxes filled with papers occupied part of the basement, mostly legal documents from the family law practice. No doubt the current owner wished to keep these files safe under lock and key. Admittedly, I found it strange that someone would choose a dank basement as the place to store important documents.

I waited in the corridor until their investigation was complete. I decided to later replace the lock with one I found in a box in a utility closet under the stairs and added the key to the house key with the intention to give it to Mrs. Schroder. There was a strong moldy smell that permeated the basement, which according to police was strongest near the brick wall at the far end. I realized the inspector had been right, and the most likely source for all the mold-related symptoms came from down here. I needed to contact Mrs. Schroder to find out the status of the trailer and tell her about the mold problem.

I accepted one of the policemen's offers to replace my car battery, and declined his offer to install a generator for the house. To my utter surprise, when I opened the hood of my car the old battery was there as though it had never been removed.

The officers looked at me as though I had been nipping at the sauce. Chagrined, I placed the new battery in the trunk and locked the car with the alarm. The thought of seeing a doctor crossed my mind, to determine just how much the mold was affecting me.

The police finished the report there, next to their vehicles. One left me a flashlight with fresh batteries, which he further explained how it could easily serve as a blunt weapon if needed.

"This place looks like all the old photos I've seen when William Carrington owned it," remarked one of the officers who wore a badge with the name _Perry_.

"Are there any photos of Mr. Carrington and his family?" I asked.

"I'm sure there are, but I have not seen any of the man," Officer Perry replied, resting his hands on his hips, which accentuated his potbelly waist. "The local Carrington Library has an entire section on the history of the house and the family." He hesitated for a moment. "To be honest, I'm surprised you're staying here. The last person who did, left in a hurry and has never been seen again. Mrs. Schroder was the one who called us to check in on the woman to make sure she was all right. All we found was the door left wide open and a note on the floor in the entry saying, 'I'm sorry,' along with the key to the place."

I dismissed his concerns by gesturing to the house. "I'm not surprised, given the mold problem inside."

His eyes lit up with understanding. "And here people have been thinking the place is haunted. Goes to show what a little common sense could do to dispel myths."

I thanked him and the officers for their help.

They were getting into their cars when Officer Perry turned back to me with a concerned expression. "Are you sure you're going to be all right?" he asked. "Mold is serious business."

"I'm sure," I replied. "Besides, Mrs. Schroder assures me that my trailer should be arriving soon."

He nodded, but as he took one look at the house his face paled as if he had seen a ghost. "I'll come by the end of the week to check up on you."

"I would appreciate that," I said, which seemed to allay his concerns somewhat.

He nodded again and went to his car.

I watched them drive off and went upstairs to wash up. The grime from the basement had embedded itself to my skin. I soaked in the bathtub adjoining the master suite for what seemed like hours. It was midafternoon when I finally made it back downstairs. I picked up my keys and purse and headed straight to the Carrington library.

## Chapter Seven

I learned that William Carrington built the house for his wife back in eighteen eighty-four. He was the son of a very wealthy attorney who moved to North Carolina for a more peaceful life. Unfortunately, his bliss was often disrupted by his work and he was forced to travel for long periods of time, leaving his wife alone in the company of the statues throughout the mansion. His wife kept herself busy by being an active member of the Equestrian Club, which hosted a number of parties and events with the proceeds going to several local charities. Some of the activities included horses, but only on rare occasions. In fact, these functions seemed to give the bored rich something to do to break up the tedium in their lives.

Mr. and Mrs. Carrington appeared to be everything a couple in the right circles ought to be. I was beginning to suspect that my close encounters with the paranormal were nothing more than imaginary events.

Suddenly something caught my attention. The initials for the mistress of the house were in fact H.M.C. There was no mention of a woman by the name of Sarah.

The librarian, a stoic woman who displayed the airs of a provincial matriarch down to her sweatshirt with its ironed-on stitch quilt, watched me with a disdainful look.

I turned to her with my most innocent smile and asked, "Are there any newspaper articles or periodicals that might have Mrs. Carrington's full name, William's wife?"

"Hanna Marie Carrington," she replied. "And before you ask, her maiden name was Palmer, once a respected name from old established family money."

"A relative?" I asked.

She nodded, lifting her nose a few notches in the process.

I glanced at one of the photographs of the house taken five years after it was built. The image of those standing before the house was too blurred to make out their features, but I suspected who they were.

Mr. Carrington stood at one end, next to a boy who couldn't be more than nine, a little girl with a big bow over a tumble of spiral curls on her head, and a woman with a wide-brim hat wearing a fashionable white dress from the times. Behind the children, almost obscured by the shade, was a woman dressed in black, holding a baby, though I couldn't tell the gender of the child. I realized then that the woman in black was the same woman in the photo my father had shown me. The little girl clutching the woman's black dress had a vacant look that made me shiver.

My eyes went back to the woman in black. This was the woman who started it all, according to my father.

"Are you all right?" asked the librarian. "You look pale."

"I'm fine. I just need to eat something." That is what I told her, however, my heart was pounding in my chest. "I am curious about Mrs. Carrington, you say her name was Hanna. Did Mr. Carrington remarry or did Hanna go by a nickname?"

She looked at me askance and narrowed her eyes. "You don't know what happened there, do you?"

I shook my head.

"Are you a reporter?"

"No," I replied. "I'm here to do some research as part of the estate sale. I'm a buyer for museums and private collectors and they usually like knowing the story before they buy."

The librarian left the counter and approached me. "Mrs. Schroder didn't tell you why they have gone through nine sellers?"

I blinked at the number. "No."

"I'll be right back." The woman turned around and disappeared behind the bookshelves, heading towards the back of the library. A few minutes later, she reappeared with a large leather-bound book containing newspaper articles dating back as far as eighteen eighty. She placed the book on the table and carefully leafed through its pages until she found the article she was looking for. She turned the book towards me and pointed at the headline.

Massacre at Carrington Manor.

I swallowed hard and began reading the story of a sordid love affair involving the president of the Equestrian Club and Mrs. Carrington. They were caught fornicating in the master suite by Mr. Carrington when he arrived late one evening after a prolonged business trip. The depraved act was performed in the middle of a dinner party where the club member guests were unaware their hostess had slipped upstairs with their Club's president. They heard Mr. Carrington yelling at his wife and her lover followed by several shots. Mr. Carrington appeared waving a sword and his traveling clothes were soaked in blood. He slashed wildly at people as a mad man before falling down the stairs and breaking his neck.

The article went on about how devastated the Carrington family was at the loss. The Equestrian Club pledged to aid the Carrington children, even to the extent of offering to take them in as its wards. However, the Carrington family refused the offer and maintained that their son, William, was the real victim in this whole case. He had been working tirelessly at the firm to provide for his wife and children a comfortable life, even at the expense of his health. They asserted that Hanna's behavior had sent poor William over the edge.

Hanna took the family to court, demanding custody of the children. The Equestrian Club financed her defense, though there was some speculation that they and Hanna were after the money left to the children. The Carrington's won the case and the children were kept in a secluded location for their safety.

There was another article about the law firm. It had a lengthy interview with family members in the firm, mentioning William's bouts with depression over his wife. One of his colleagues reported that Mr. Carrington suspected her of having an affair, yet doted over her as any loving husband would in hopes of changing his wife's behavior. He even confessed to his colleague that he worried his children were in danger. Given the circumstances, it was prudent to settle the matter quickly for the sake of the children who were greatly affected by what had happened. In order to provide some semblance of normalcy, Miss Sarah Ellis remained their governess until the children were of age and retired shortly thereafter.

Sarah, the same woman in the letter, was the woman in black. I suspected that the articles weren't telling the whole truth.

I closed the book and turned to the librarian. "What happened to the children?"

"They grew up, messed up their lives like any other set of spoiled rich brats," she replied. "William, Jr. was the only one to actually make something of himself, though the apple didn't fall far from the tree. He eventually died of an overdose, leaving his poor wife to raise four kids on her own. The daughter, Arianna, married into a good family, though she never had children of her own. The youngest committed suicide in the master suite of the house, a few days before he was to marry."

"How tragic," I said.

"Everything about that family is tragic. Even the governess went mad at the end, claiming the children were hers."

I wrote down some notes and then put the notepad and pen away in my bag.

"Do what you have to and get out of there," the woman warned. "That house, and everything tied to it, is cursed."

_Cursed._

The more I heard about the Carrington family, the more I was convinced they brought everything upon themselves. It had nothing to do with curses.

I thanked her and left the library to grab something to eat. Afterwards, I went to the store to buy masks and groceries and headed back to the house.

The last rays of sunlight fell over the house when I arrived. I opened the front door and a wave of air blew over me, like a fetid breath. Inside, the house was still...too still.

I immediately donned one of the masks and went inside with a few bags filled with groceries and a can of mace.

I was in the kitchen when I thought I heard someone walking up the stairs.

I went to the corridor and looked around with my can of mace in hand and my other weapon, the police flashlight in the other hand. I aimed the light at the shadows and thoroughly checked the rooms upstairs, but found no one. I stood still on the second floor landing, listening to the dense silence for a time and heard nothing else.

It must have been the wood settling, I thought.

I started back down the stairs when I heard the faint chimes of Clair de Lune coming from the floor above. I quickly rushed up the stairs to confront whoever was playing games with me, but the music stopped as I reached the door to the master suite.

The door creaked open and when I entered, I felt a cold rush of air envelope me. The hair at the back of my neck stood up. "Who's there?" I asked, hearing the fear in my quivering voice.

There was no answer.

I went to the vanity in the dressing room and saw the music box sitting there on the counter, making no sounds at all. I checked the mechanism to make sure it was not loose, and found that the winding key easily turned if positioned just right, which could cause it to play on its own.

I put the music box back into the chest, under a layer of quilts, and made my way down the stairs. Shadows swept down the walls, swallowing the last vestiges of daylight. Halfway down, I heard the muffled sobbing of a man. I stopped, moved by the sadness in his painful cries.

"Hello!" I cried out. "Please, let me help you."

The sobbing stopped.

## Chapter Eight

I set about to expedite the preparations for the estate sale making a few phone calls to potential buyers. They jumped at the opportunity when I mentioned the history of the house, and that it might be haunted. I thought of mentioning the curse, but thought the better of it. Telling them about the curse would only serve to devalue the priceless objects.

The hearth was ablaze, giving off enough warmth and light to chase the gloomy chill that came with night. I was on my way to the wingback chair, my nightly tea and cookies in hand, when I saw him.

A man leaned over the hearth, watching the flames with an intensity that made me think he wished to be consumed by them. He didn't move, just stood there, his forearm resting on the mantle.

He was dressed in period clothing from the late nineteenth century. He seemed to blend with the shadows enough that I wondered if he were real or a ghost. His skin was pale, too pale, emphasized by the dark color of his hair which despite being combed back still touched his ears. His features were strong, austere and even imposing, yet it did not diminish his handsome profile. His posture displayed an aristocratic refinement one would expect from a lord of that era.

I slowly approached him, clearing my throat.

There was no reaction. Only when I put down my tea and plate on the round table next to the chair did he look at me.

"Are you a member of the family?" I asked.

I waited for a response, but he stood there with his eyes fixed on me.

The silence was thick and oppressive, so I broke it saying, "Forgive me, I thought I was the only one in the house."

"We are never alone," he said with a melancholy voice.

I didn't know what to say to that. I gestured to the table. "Would you like some tea? I have a little extra and I don't mind sharing it."

His expression darkened. "Are you afraid?"

My throat went dry and I swallowed hard. "No," I said, more to convince myself than he. The flashlight was within my reach in case this man came at me. I had hoped to sound confident and would have managed to be had he not spoken the next few words.

"You should be," he said.

I quickly reached for the flashlight and turned to face him, wielding it like a club, but he was gone.

My heart pounded and my eyes darted around the room. The shadows seemed to waver like wisps of black smoke.

I shook my head, trying to dispel the fear I felt. With a heavy sigh, angry at myself for getting worked up, I lowered the flashlight.

It had to be the mold. What other explanation could it be?

In the morning I would take Mrs. Schroder's recommendation to go to the hotel and then report the problem to the proprietor. I was contemplating having the furniture removed as I was making my way to the chair when I felt someone behind me, watching me.

I turned around and there he was again. "Sir, I would appreciate it if you would stop playing practical jokes with me. I am not a child seeking a thrill. I am a professional."

He ran his eyes over me. Although his expression remained the same, I felt as though he could see through my clothing. My cheeks burned.

"Tell me who you are," I ordered.

It was ever so minute, but his expression softened. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to upset you." He went to the fireplace—his movements were fluid as though he drifted across the room—and assumed the same position as before.

"Mr. Carrington, I presume?"

"Yes," he replied and turned his pale face to the flames.

Relieved, I put down the flashlight and sat on the chair. "Are you sure I can't tempt you with some tea?"

His eyes went to me as though my offer had a more salacious tone to it.

I picked up my cup and showed it to him. "I am offering tea, not a foray into the delights of a brothel, Mr. Carrington."

More of the gloom lifted from his expression. "You remind me of someone I know."

I crossed my legs, making sure he understood I was quite closed off to any suggestion he may entertain. I was still affected by the jitters fluttering in my belly, or so I think I was, when I uttered the most brazen statement. "With all due respect, if you say it is a harlot I will beat you senseless with my flashlight." I was shocked at my own words and immediately tried to apologize. However, he was laughing so hard he paid me no mind.

The sound of his laughter had such a cheerful quality to it that it removed the tension in the room. It went on for some time, seeming to release years of pain and anxiety. When he was done, a comfortable silence fell between us as I sipped my tea. Finally, he turned to me with a warm smile. "I must thank you, Miss Nelson. I haven't enjoyed the pleasure of good company in quite some time."

I rested the cup on my lap. "Mr. Carrington, I should thank you for your graciousness. I'm not normally this uncouth."

"Please, call me William," he offered.

I immediately thought of the letters.

"Have I said something to upset you?" he asked. "You look pale."

I shook my head. "William must be a family name," I remarked, trying to dispel the unease that nagged me. "My name is Henrietta, which is also a family name, but please call me Hettie."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Hettie." The look on his eyes was kind and gentle, which soothed my apprehension. "And you have no need to worry about your behavior. What have you said that I did not deserve? You thought you were alone in the house and no doubt I frightened you. My manner has been brusque, at best, and you have been generous to tolerate it."

"Not at all," I countered. "It is your house and it is natural you should be here. I promise I shall behave with more decorum and fulfill your wishes to sell the estate." I set down my cup on the table.

His smile faded. "Who says I want to sell?"

"The Property Manager, Mrs. Schroder," I replied.

His expression darkened and he turned to the fire once more to try to hide his displeasure from me, but it was quite apparent in his words. "I never agreed to such a thing. The current owner wishes to destroy his heritage, to distance himself from his past, but he can't. No matter how hard he may try, the day of reckoning is coming."

I felt his resolve in those words as palpable as the heat from the fire. "What are you talking about, William? What day of reckoning?"

His jaw tightened then dismissed it with a wave of his hand. When he turned back to me, he had the saddest eyes, so much like my father. "You must excuse me, Hettie. I have been told by acquaintances that I suffer from a melancholy disposition. I would tell you to leave this place, to go as far away as you can, but it is too late for that. You're part of this now. Like her, you can't escape."

I could feel a dark ominous shadow creeping over me, like vapor seeping into my skin. The question barely slipped past my lips. "Who are you talking about? Part of what?"

"The curse," he hissed.

My fear turned to anger at yet again the mention of a curse. It was becoming quite the joke, except it wasn't funny.

I frowned at him skeptically. "Please excuse me," I said abruptly. Before I said anything I would regret, I grabbed my cup and the cookies I hadn't touched, and went to the kitchen with the flashlight tucked under my arm. By the time I returned, I was ready for a serious and rational conversation, but he was gone.

The air became cold to the point I could see my breath, despite the roaring fire in the hearth.

Beyond the grand windows, lightning flashed within the clouds from a storm rolling in from the sea. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the face a jackal wearing a malevolent grin.

I turned in its direction towards the secret door to the study—the jackal wasn't there, but the door was wide open.

As I entered the study, the lightning from the storm outside roared with more frequency and illuminated the room through the windows. I knew I was quite alone, yet I sensed I was not. The air was colder in there. The chill sank down to my bones.

My apprehension collided with fear the moment lightning streaked across the sky with a thundering boom. I didn't know why I felt that way, but in that instant I knew I was in grave danger.

## Chapter Nine

I didn't wait for morning to leave the house. The storm was bearing down full force as I drove towards the highway. I needed to get to Raleigh as quickly as possible. Jan was there, my college roommate and best friend who is a historian with a particular passion for local history. No doubt she knew of the Carringtons and could help me find out the truth of what really happened on the night of Mr. William Carrington's death.

I negotiated the fallen branches and potholes as best as I could. The trees creaked and groaned, swaying all around me and threatening to snap from the cold wind.

I felt a panic swelling within me, as though I was being chased. All I could think about was William's warning.

You are part of this now. Like her, you can't escape.

My car hit a deep pothole. I tried to work my way out of it, but the tire was stuck in the mud.

The wind blew more violently and tree limbs began to break. The rain was moving horizontally and I could feel the wind pressing against the car on the passenger's side, as though trying to tip the car over.

I sat there paralyzed for a moment, watching the trees flailing from the assault. The snapping of limbs was overshadowed by the loud crack of a huge tree that was beginning to fall in my direction. I snapped into action and hit the gas. The tire rolled back and forth until I managed to free it from the mud.

The tree scraped the back fender as I drove as fast as I could to the paved highway.

The drive was horrendous even on the paved road. I was forced to wait it out tucked in an underpass until dawn. I was exhausted by the time I reached Raleigh.

I must have looked like I felt, because the first thing Jan did when she saw me was to give me a hug.

"I'm so glad you came," she said, ushering me into her cozy little home.

Immediately the warmth inside enveloped me and I could feel the chilling grip of Carrington Manor slipping away.

Jan took my coat and hung it up in the entry closet. "Why don't you get washed up while I make us some breakfast?"

I nodded my thanks and spent the next half hour trying to wash away the anxiety of everything I had witnessed to that point. However, when I looked into the mirror my face appeared paler than before, as though life was slowly draining from me.

I changed into some clean clothes and went into the kitchen, where Jan was serving scrambled eggs for us. My mouth watered at the smell of a hearty breakfast and I sat down at the table soaking in the brightness of her place.

I was surrounded by happy memories. The coo-coo clock I had given her last Christmas my father found when a German immigrant passed away. His widow wished to give away her husband's collections to someone who would cherish the precious objects. Jan, both a descendent of Germans and the daughter of a clockmaker, gushed with delight when she saw the coo-coo clock the first time. There was also the set of Mason jars from old Mrs. Hathaway, a neighbor Jan had helped in her last days. Jan proudly displayed them on her counter, using them to store sugar, flour, and tea. A beaded edge crystal antique bowl now filled with oranges and apples sat at the center of the table. It was a priceless antique when I picked it up at a garage sale for pennies. Most people would have placed it in a china cabinet and left it there. Not Jan. She never let anything go to waste and believed that an unused gift was tantamount to a snub.

She smiled at me as she placed the plate before me, filled with all the comfort foods a belly could wish for at breakfast.

"Thank you...for everything," I offered with sincerity, though I couldn't quite shake the nagging tension that had followed me there.

Jan sat down with her dish and asked me with a worried expression, "How are you?"

I wasn't sure what to say. She was my best friend, but how does one explain what I had seen?

Her worry seemed to deepen when I did not answer. "Is it about the loss of your father?"

Was it? I couldn't be sure. It was possible I was grieving in such a way as to block out stretches of time, and perhaps I was imagining Mr. Carrington sitting there with me in the parlor.

My lips parted but the words escaped me. I felt my eyes burning. I was caught between the rigid features of my dead father lying in a casket at the funeral and the pale figure standing before the fireplace at Carrington Manor with that melancholy voice warning me of a curse.

Jan's touch brought me out of that hellish reverie and I stared at that fair hand squeezing mine. "Let me make a few phone calls and then I'll take you out for a drive, after we eat our breakfast."

I only ate half of what was on my plate, despite my appetite, and washed the dishes while she made her phone calls.

We left in her car and went outside the city to the countryside, all the while the news of the effects of the storm whispering from the radio. The sound of the car on the pavement lulled my anxiety enough that I began to feel sleep overtaking me. When I woke up, the car had stopped and was facing a lake we frequented back in our college days. It was the perfect place to get away from life's little annoyances and professors with inarticulate methods of teaching who piled more busy-work than viable homework.

I sat up and glanced at Jan next to me who had a serene expression as she looked out over the lake.

"It's so beautiful here," she remarked.

I nodded, taking in what I could from the meadows, the placid lake, and the birds that ventured towards its banks. The peace of this place was just the soothing balm I needed.

"I need some information, Jan," I finally said.

She turned to me. "What kind of information?"

"The kind that involves intrigues, wealth, and a curse," I replied.

"My favorite kind!" She eagerly turned in her seat to face me. "Now tell me everything, and I mean everything."

I did, including my male visitor and what I had learned from the Carrington Librarian. I explained some of the things I had experienced, which Jan agreed could be caused by the mold, and the bones I had found outside the house.

"The Carringtons were a notorious lot," Jan said as she was contemplating the clues I had presented her.

"You're talking about Mr. Carrington murdering his wife and her lover?" I asked, seeing something shift in my friend's eyes as though she was seeing something in the distance.

"Not Mr. Carrington, but Mrs. Carrington," Jan corrected. "She was a Palmer, once a reputable wealthy family with a lot of land. Unfortunately, the father of that clan never sired an heir worthy of his legacy. With each new generation came less industry and more depravity. Hanna Palmer's marriage into the Carrington family was supposed to restore the family's honor and put much needed cash into the Palmer coffers since her father had lost all his inheritance on a bet."

I thought of the letters addressed to Sarah, the governess and put two and two together. "So it was a marriage of convenience?"

"Yes," she replied. "From what I've read, William Carrington was a very reserved and respectable man, most likely forced into the marriage by the Carrington patriarch. Apparently, William had fallen in love with a young woman, but she was poor and below his station. He eloped with her, but the marriage was eventually annulled. His father sent him off to sea to serve in the navy and the woman disappeared from the picture."

I frowned. "What do you mean 'disappeared'?"

Jan shrugged. "Exactly that. Some speculate that she was bribed into leaving, while others believe she became his mistress."

Something in her manner suggested there was more. "What aren't you telling me?"

She glanced away with a grimace. "The Palmers were heavily involved in the Equestrian Club. Contrary to its name, the activities of the club seldom, if at all, included horses or horseback riding"

"I don't think I'm going to like what's coming next," I said.

She turned back to me. "You probably won't. The club was a front for gambling, drinking, and other sordid activities. When they got together to go 'riding' as they called it, it involved going on all fours, if you get my meaning."

"That's disgusting," I said with revulsion.

"It gets worse."

I frowned.

"There was a big scandal that forced the club to close up shop for good." Jan paused for effect. "One of the maids went to the police and told them what was really going on. When they arrived, there were several children among them."

At that point, I couldn't take anymore. I threw open the door and got out of the car. I took in several deep breaths, my mind reeling at the images Jan's story had conjured in my head.

Jan got out and spoke softly as she approached me. "I'm sorry. With everything that has happened to you, I should have been more sensitive."

I shook my head. "Don't apologize. The facts are what they are. Maybe that is why Mr. Carrington went crazy." I looked back at my friend. "I would have done the same."

I stared out into the lake, watching the sunlight play over the surface with a calm I wanted to absorb but could not. "The young woman William loved, I think I know who she was but I need confirmation. Do you know her name?"

My friend glanced away in thought and then answered, "Samantha...Savanna..."

"Sarah?" I put in.

"Yes, that was it," Jan replied. "Sarah Ellis."

## Chapter Ten

After I said my goodbyes to Jan, I went to the post office to pick up my mail. There was a padded ocher envelope addressed to me with only an address in Charlotte. Inside was a note with a phone number and an old iron key.

I went to my car and dialed the number on the note.

"Hello?"

I recognized the voice of the person as my father's lawyer, an elderly gentleman who had the means and reputation to choose his clients. My father had worked for him on a few acquisitions and sales of estates and eventually developed a friendship with him.

"Mr. Campbell, it is Hettie. I'm surprised to receive your parcel."

"I'm sorry for all the secrecy, but I was told to be completely discrete" he said. "Your father purchased this disposable phone for this very purpose and gave me explicit orders to deliver that key to you five weeks after he passed away. He also gave me instructions to give you the following address..."

The address turned out to be an old storage company that looked as though it had been there since the dawn of time. This was not a very good part of town and a woman walking alone had to be desperate to be on the street, even in the full light of day. Grime had caked over the caged windows outside enough so the sun dared not touch them. The iron bars over the windows appeared strong despite the years of tarnish. Trash littered the sidewalk and the air reeked of urine wafting from the alley next to the building.

I used the knocker on the heavy iron door and within moments a small window slid open.

A man barked through the window, "What?"

"Hello, my name is Hettie Nelson, I'm the daughter of..."

"Put your hand inside the mail slot," he cut in.

I glanced down to the dark indentation. "Why, may I ask?"

"So I can cut off all your fingers." His bitter tone was gnawing on my nerves.

"There's no need to be sarcastic. I have a key to something inside your facility." I showed it to him, which didn't even make his bushy brow flinch. I sighed and put my hand into the slot as instructed.

"Keep still now," he ordered.

I watched as a red light passed under my hand and then heard a series of mechanisms working inside the door until finally it opened.

I slipped inside into a lobby that could have come from the Ritz.

The walls had richly stained paneling and lined with cabinets, lamps, and paintings. The contrast between the outside façade and the inner décor was surreal. The scowling figure peering up at me through thick eyebrows made me feel smaller than he was. His impeccable suit didn't have a single crease off center. However, his manner was anything but genteel.

He put out his wrinkled hand. "Let me see the key."

"I first must know the name of the gentleman to whom I give my key," I told him.

He assessed me for a moment before replying with what sounded like a bit more civility, "Bertram, ma'am."

I handed him the key.

He pulled out a jeweler's magnifying glass and proceeded to inspect the key. He grunted a few times, pointing the tip of his finger to a series of tiny dots. "They don't make keys like this anymore," he grumbled and pocketed the magnifying glass. "Follow me."

We traveled down a series of corridors marked with no rhyme or reason. Some had symbols while others had numbers and color codes. The strangest of all were the doors. Most were metal, but a few were made of wood that appeared so old that the slightest pressure would make them disintegrate into dust.

He brought me to one of these wooden doors and put the key into the padlock. Surprisingly, the door held its shape as he pushed it open, though it protested loudly as it shed dust it had accumulated through the decades.

Inside it was pitch black.

Bertram directed his flashlight into the narrow space.

On the floor, covered with layers of dust and cobwebs was a large square wooden box.

He brushed away the cobwebs and picked up the box. "This way please."

He led me to a windowless room that had the same lavish décor as the reception area, but with chairs made for comfort and large bottoms. There was also a long table covered with a red tablecloth embroidered with the crest of a serpent.

I sat down and the box was placed before me on the table.

He handed me the key and excused himself.

The box was ribbed with metal strips and embossed with fine filigree. The strips ended in a lock. I tried the key I had and it turned with ease.

The lid popped open, releasing stale air from the past. I lifted the lid to reveal a leather-bound book.

I picked it up carefully and put it on the table. The binding was in excellent condition and easily opened.

It was a journal, filled with the ramblings of a young woman who longed for adventure and romance. There were also sketches of plants, landscapes, and even people. She had sketched her father, a rugged man with a trimmed thick beard. Her mother had the features of a jolly soul quick to smile and laugh. There were two siblings, but illness had taken them when they were very young.

The young woman went on about her daily life, sometimes adding a poem or two. She was the only one who could read and write in the family, thanks to a poor teacher who traded instruction for her mother's cooking.

As she grew older, she grew more restless, eager to start her own life as an adult. She dreamed of far off places, of meeting new people and finding someone who would share in her passion for literature. There were a few suitors who came to call, but none were kindred spirits. Then there was a period of time where she did not write in her journal. The next entry was a series of events from a trip she had taken to the country to visit her ailing aunt. She cared for the older woman who lived in a cottage on the outer territory and discovered a love for the wild landscape. There were pages of sketches of places she had seen, of trees and flowers and wild life. Nothing seemed to escape her notice as she ventured outside, while her aunt slept. Then one day she stumbled upon a man resting with his horse.

Unlike the others she had met from the local township, this man was refined and had the manners of a gentleman. Immediately she felt a kinship with him and soon he was paying her visits at her aunt's modest cottage.

As I read the pages of their blossoming relationship, I felt the excitement of their romance, felt the frustration on the confinements of Victorian limitations, and smiled when I read about their first kiss.

I was so caught up in the story that I didn't even realize what time it was until Bertram entered the room with some coffee.

I checked my watch and saw that it was late. "Thank you, but I should leave."

"Your loss," he said as he placed the coffee tray on the table. "My cappuccinos are legendary."

I smiled. "I'm sure they are, but I still need to drive back to Carrington."

He shrugged. "Good, more for me."

I gestured to the box. "Is it all right for me to leave this here for a while longer?"

"You can leave it here for eternity," he said as he picked up the fine porcelain cup. "The space was prepaid for an indefinite use of time."

I picked up the journal to put it back into the box when I discovered there was more inside—a locket, a folded sketch, and a marriage certificate.

I first picked up the locket and opened it. Inside was the hand painted miniature portrait of a young woman that I instantly recognized. I read the inscription on the inside.

Forever, Sarah.

I next unfolded the sketch.

The pensive gaze and the fiercely masculine features were that of William Carrington. His hair was pulled back and his tunic was slightly open to reveal a powerful physique underneath. The image exuded intelligence and virility, combined with a gentleness that would make any red-blooded woman swoon.

I picked up the marriage certificate and realized there was a sealed envelope inside. I carefully opened it and read the contents of a letter.

To all my living relatives who find this journal and the contents thereof, take great care to keep it secret. For there are many who conspire against me who seek to destroy all evidence describing the truth of what happened on the night of Mr. William Carrington's death. Do not share it with anyone or remove it from the sanctuary where it resides or death will follow.

Sarah Carrington.

## Chapter Eleven

I was driving to my father's house, when I decided to call Jan to tell her about what I had just learned and seen.

"Jan, you won't believe where I've been..."

"I'm sorry, you have the wrong number," an unrecognizable female voice on the other line injected.

I checked the number on my mobile phone and I had dialed correctly. "This number belongs to Miss Janet Evans."

"No, it does not," she asserted. "I've had this number for the past year."

"But that is impossible! She's had that number for twelve years."

"I don't know what to tell you, Miss. I'm sorry." The woman then hung up.

I stared at the phone and then threw it into my purse on the chair beside me. I was very tired and had too much on my mind to unravel this new mystery.

I pulled into the driveway and parked my car between the house and the antique shop that had been the family business for generations.

Everything was dark, even the porch light, which I was certain I had left on. I went inside the house and flipped the lights on. Although nothing was out of place, something was definitely off. The house was filled with knickknacks, including a replica of the USS Constitution, a frigate once commanded by Stephen Decatur, an early naval hero dubbed "Terror of the Foe." I stared at that model ship, thinking of William and wondering if he had commanded a ship of his own when his father had sent him off to the navy. There was the mismatched set of tins sitting on the shelf that ran along the far wall. There were the crystal lamps on a pair of antique Victorian parlor tables, the old French chaise and matching couch and the curio cabinet filled with all types of porcelain collectables. And everything there was thought to be haunted. This was father's little secret passion, hunting haunted objects. He was quite the sleuth when something caught his fancy. I imagine that is where I got my insatiable curiosity.

I dropped my keys and purse on the table by the door and rolled my shoulders to relieve the tension on my muscles. I went into the kitchen and made myself some tea. The warm liquid wasn't enough to remove the chill I felt, so I went into my room at the back of the house. I passed my father's old home-office that still had piles upon piles of papers and boxes, and the guest rooms were cluttered with antiques waiting to be appraised and sold.

I curled up in my bed to read a book, trying to recapture the comfort and safety I usually felt in there. I was falling asleep when my mobile phone rang. It was an unlisted number, but I answered it, "Hello?"

It took me a few seconds to hear something on the other end. I thought I heard a woman's voice but it was faint. "Hello? I'm sorry, but I cannot hear you. The connection isn't very good."

The caller hung up and tried again. This time I could hear something—a man crying bitterly.

"Who is this?" I asked.

The sobbing went on for some time.

I hung up the phone, but it quickly rang again. I hesitated to answer, but fearing it might be an important call I finally did.

The voice at the other end was barely audible, it pleaded, "Please...don't leave me..." I couldn't make out the rest save the faint sobbing in the background.

"Who is this? Why are you calling me?"

The call was cut off.

I sat there perplexed, and was startled when it rang once more. By this time, I was very irritated. "If you don't stop harassing me, I will call the police."

"I beg your pardon?" replied Mrs. Schroder.

I winced. "Forgive me. I thought you were a crank caller."

"When you didn't return my calls, I thought something had happened to you," she chided.

I didn't remember my phone ringing and verified that indeed I had received a number of calls from her. "I should have called you. I left the house last night..."

"During the storm?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes, I needed to take care of some urgent personal business." I wasn't about to tell her the real reason I left. No doubt she would think I was loony. I was beginning to wonder that myself.

I could hear her high heels clicking on a wood floor. "You're fortunate to have gotten out at all. A number of trees fell onto the road. I was barely able to get to the house, but managed it thanks to Officer Perry."

"You're inside the manor?"

"Yes..." Her voice trailed off as though something else had caught her attention.

I heard Officer Perry ask, "Did you hear that?"

"Yes," Mrs. Schroder whispered as though trying not to disturb whatever it was.

I could hear the panic in the man's voice as he declared, "That's what I have been hearing."

"It must be the pipes," Mrs. Schroder insisted.

He clearly thought otherwise when he retorted, "Since when do pipes talk?"

I was relieved that someone else had experienced the same things I had. However, I still believed there was a rational explanation. I had to believe it.

"There is mold in the house," I informed her. "I too have experienced a few strange things, which I think might be the effects of the mold. I was going to call you about it."

"That might be it," Mrs. Schroder acknowledged. "Considering the house will be demolished soon, I don't think Mr. Carrington will agree to hire someone to remove it."

"Unless he considers the health risk," I pointed out. "If he decides to leave it there, I will insist that the trailer be brought before I continue my work."

"Of course," she agreed. "In fact, I was told that it should be here by the end of the week. We will extend the contract to allow you adequate time to finish the job. For now, stay home and I will call you once it arrives."

"Thank you, Mrs. Schroder."

I could hear Officer Perry insisting that they leave.

I hung up, put the book on my nightstand, and turned out the light.

It was easier to settle down now and drift into a deep sleep. At the twilight of consciousness, a question formed in my mind.

How did Mrs. Schroder know I was at home?

## Chapter Twelve

When I awoke the following day, I still felt tired. I got up, took a long shower, and ate some breakfast. I was sitting in the kitchen, having my toast and juice and contemplating how nothing had changed in the years my father occupied this house, when I saw a box on the cabinet next to the table. I froze when my eyes rested on the coo-coo clock sticking out of the top. Jan's name was written on the side of the box.

I approached it and looked inside.

The mason jars from Mrs. Hathaway were there, along with the beaded edge antique crystal bowl. There were more of Jan's things in there, small items that had sentimental value for both of us. And there was a large envelope containing photos of the two of us, taken a few years ago at the lake. Her smile always had an effect on me, warm and cheerful, the kind that made the world a friendlier and welcoming place. There was also a folder containing articles and research notes Jan had put together of the Carrington dynasty that included everything I had learned about them yesterday.

I sat down on the nearest chair. Memories emerged as if through a thick fog in my mind—beveled glass cast prisms across the room, music from a piano played a sad tune, and the scent of flower wreaths and freshly turned earth. I could still feel the grains of dirt in my hands from when I threw a handful into Jan's grave.

I rushed to the bathroom and scrubbed my hands, trying desperately to wash the sensation of the grit from them until I felt the pain. My hand was raw. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a face that was cold, angry, and despondent.

I went back to the kitchen, picked up the box of Jan's things and took it to my father's office to add it to the other piles. I turned to my father's old roll top desk with its many cubbies and drawers filled with letters, bills and invoices all of which I had yet to go through. One envelope caught my attention, sent by Carrington, Esq.

I opened it and read:

" _Dear Mr. Nelson,_

We are disappointed in your response regarding the proposal to conduct the liquidation of the Carrington Estate and its assets. We assumed the 'sensitive nature of past events' had been resolved long ago. Please accept our sincerest apologies if our inquiry offended you. We ask that you reconsider and reiterate our offer in good faith."

The letter was unsigned, but the letterhead had the names Zimmer and Carrington, Esquires.

I went to my father's filing cabinet, a dinosaur from an old bank he kept because he refused to embrace the computer age, and searched for the carbon copy of his response. He kept a record of everything and in his chaotic own way, he was organized. It took some time but I eventually found the letter.

" _Dear Mr. Carrington, Esq.,_

I must decline your proposal due to the sensitive nature of past events that would be a conflict of interest. You of all people ought to understand that any involvement from a member of this family would be ill advised. There are a number of other dealers in antiquities that would be more than happy to assist you in the sale of the Carrington Estate and all its contents."

I remembered the day I received the call from their office. Mrs. Schroder had told me that my father had accepted the offer, which I thought was odd considering the promise he forced me to make as a child. It was obvious that Mrs. Schroder had lied to me, but why?

I checked the file and found no other response. The letter in my hand was dated four months before he passed away. The lawyer's letter was dated a few days before his funeral. Yet I received their call the day after my father was laid to rest.

I left my father's house and drove back into town. I found the elusive warehouse once more and parked my car across the street. Bertram greeted me with his acerbic charm, punctuated by his inclination for formality, and proceeded to usher me down a number of stairs into the bowels of the building. The stairs ended in what seemed like a labyrinth or catacombs. Overhead lights turned on as we approached and then turned off behind us. The stone walls were getting narrower and progressively and disagreeably dank.

I felt as though I were sinking deeper into the earth, where the only living things besides Bertram and I were worms feasting on the dead. "Where exactly are you taking me?"

"You have powerful enemies, Miss Nelson," he said over his shoulder. "One sent a subpoena for all the contents in your vault. They sent two thugs to ensure it was successfully retrieved."

I squeezed my hand into a fist, but winced at the pain from my raw skin. "Let me guess. Carrington, Esq.?"

"Congratulations, you've won the grand prize."

I stopped. "Then why did you bring me down here?"

He too stopped and turned around to face me. "Miss Nelson, we have been providing storage security for over three-quarters of a millennia. When we say 'secure' we mean 'absolutely secure'."

He then turned around and continued, with me following right behind him.

The doors in this part of the fortress had better security than the others. The humidity was oppressive near some of the vaults, which made it almost impossible to stay there for long. Others had foul smells I cared not to identify, while others seemed to give off a biting cold. I noticed that above each door was a square opening that one would expect to hide a camera. However, I realized the changes in the air were coming from that very hole and I thought I saw electrical components inside.

"You must have quite a distinguished clientele," I remarked. "I can't imagine what would be so important as to require such measures to secure it."

"The Lost Book of Mary is somewhere down here." He glanced at one of the holes above the door we were approaching.

"The Book of Mary has been here since the sixteenth century?" I asked skeptically.

"Technically it came to the Americas in the fourteenth century," he said as led me around another corner. "It narrowly escaped getting into the Vatican's hands, but thanks to a Spanish explorer it was saved and it eventually made its way into our care for safekeeping."

"You're talking about Christopher Columbus." Just then we passed before a door wrapped in a horrific stench. "Oh, that smells horrible."

"Lucas Vázquez de Ayllón," he said with perfect Spanish diction.

"Is that what I smell, a dead man?" I covered my nose because the smell seemed to follow us now.

"That is the name of the explorer," he said over his shoulder, seeming unscathed by the offensively odorous atmosphere.

"Don't you smell it?" I was getting nauseous and resorted to using a tissue to cover my mouth and nose, though even that proved futile.

"When you room with a bilious Parisian with an overactive sphincter, your sense of smell eventually adapts." He stopped before a dark narrow passage. "The aromas are one of the ways we keep unwanted guests from sniffing around, if you catch my drift. Each door is outfitted with a defense mechanism, depending on the owner's preference. Some people like to burn thieves, while others prefer to freeze them."

I gulped. "You kill those who break into the vaults?"

"Miss Nelson, theft is a very serious crime, particularly involving rare and priceless items." He met my gaze. "We take our job quite seriously."

I tried not to think of how many people had died down here, coming to a rather dreadful end. "I didn't notice any strange smells near the vault you brought me to yesterday."

He shrugged. "None was originally requested. Most people know who are after their valuables, Miss Nelson. You did not. The visit I received earlier clarified the matter, having the distinct smell of corruption. So I took it upon myself to bring your box down here."

"Thank you," I offered, though I couldn't help but wonder why he felt it necessary. "It's just a journal."

He stopped to glance at me. "I would wager that journal is worth quite a bit to some."

"We shall see," I said, anxious to find out exactly why it was so important.

He led me down the narrow corridor, using a remote control to switch on the overhead lights.

The smell was much worse there. I was starting to gag.

He opened a door into a room that seemed to swallow the light and offered me the lead.

I shook my head with my hand still covering my nose and mouth.

His brushy brow rose and he pressed a button on his remote.

Light flooded the small room instantly. There was an ivory desk and two matching, comfortable armchairs. The large wooden box lay on the desk.

I went in and he followed behind me and closed the door. I noticed then that the room was well ventilated. I lowered my hand and took a deep breath. There was only a faint hint of the foul smell and eventually it dissipated.

I put down my purse and sat on the chair.

Bertram was kind enough to help me with the lid.

I removed everything from the box.

"Would you like a cappuccino?" he asked as he placed the wooden box aside, giving me more room on the desk.

I was thirsty, but declined. "I wouldn't want to trouble you. It's such a long trek."

"It's no trouble. I'll just take the elevator at the end of the corridor."

I frowned. "Then why didn't we just use that instead of walking all the way here?"

"In order to get the full effect," he stated as a matter of fact. "Elevators are such killjoys."

"If only Crete were so fortunate to have you as their Minotaur."

He winked and then excused himself.

I shook my head and chuckled as I opened the journal. I leafed through the pages, trying to find a good place to begin, until I came upon a chilling entry.

" _I found little Nelly, Arianna's cat. Her paws had been severed and her eyes gouged out. The poor creature wailed and thrashed about in a pool of her blood. The butler put her out of her misery, but not before Arianna saw it all. She was looking down at us, outside my window, with eyes void of emotion."_

~

### Part 2 – Shadows of the Past
## Chapter Thirteen

Sarah Carrington was an affable woman who had the misfortune to be born with a happy disposition. To many, this uncouth young woman had no reason to be happy about anything, in particular her situation. She was poor and her father barely managed to put food on the table and keep a roof over the family's heads. It was not uncommon to find Mr. Ellis inebriated in public and at times even incarcerated after a brawl. Mrs. Ellis was quite different, a religious woman who devoted her time to offering medicinal aid to those in the community who could not afford a doctor. Her daughter, Sarah, was blessed with the same gift of healing she possessed and helped her mother whenever possible.

The farm they rented required a great deal of work. When Mr. Ellis was confined to bed as a result of one of his drinking binges, it was up to Sarah to feed the chickens, milk the cows and tend to the modest vegetable garden, while Mrs. Ellis took care of the rest.

The generosity of a teacher allowed Sarah the opportunity to learn to read and write. In time, she developed an insatiable appetite for reading and a desire for adventure. Her father was beside himself trying to put some sense into his girl's head, but her mother was adamant that Sarah pursue her quest for knowledge.

There were fears Sarah would grow up to have a mind of her own, but she proved faithful to her father's wishes by restraining herself. Only when she was alone in the company of her mother did she reveal her more audacious nature. To the world, she was the picture of a perfect daughter, but in her mind she was a free spirit.

The only other person to see this side of her personality was William Carrington. He was also the only other person who appreciated it and encouraged her, besides her mother. It is what drew him in, that tireless energy that exuded joy and enthusiasm. She was both beautiful in spirit as she was in body, which was such a contrast to the gloom that permeated his home life.

His father was an ascetic, severe man who never displayed a hint of pleasure in his life, or so it seemed to William. There was no laughter in his home, only rules and discipline that suffocated whatever diversions might dare stray into one's thoughts. William's life had been mapped out from the day he was born, which involved a strict discipline of study, etiquette, and prudence. Sports were the only diversions allowed and even that was practiced with stifling restraint.

The day he met Sarah, everything changed.

William married her in secret, because he knew his father would disapprove. He arrived one evening and made the announcement of their marriage. The couple did not expect the news to be well received, but the absence of a reaction disturbed Sarah. No one said a word, not even his father.

Only later did the matter get address, when father and son were alone in the patriarch's study.

William was adamant of honoring his obligation to Sarah, for whom he swore his undying love, even with the threat to be disinherited. Therefore, his father decided to take matters into his own hands.

He sent William on an errand one afternoon and called Sarah into his study. He tried to reason with her, to explain the situation that a young woman with no connections or money could not possibly be an acceptable match for his son. He offered her money, property, and even a stipend if she were to release his son. However, she refused, which was precisely what he expected her to do.

Sarah had no idea what she had gotten herself into as she could have never imagined the type of family she had married into. Youthful vigor supersedes suspicion in these regards, but after that day she had no doubt how things would be if she were to remain with William.

The Carrington patriarch clearly had enough practice to know where exactly to leave marks on her body. Not even William could see them, unable to comprehend the changes occurring to his young wife who grew quiet and distant.

Mr. Carrington, Sr. forced himself upon her on a number of occasions. He waited for Sarah's will to break and run to tell William what he had done. That would be his opportunity to explain that she had seduced him in order to secure her position in the family. He mocked and taunted her by whispering in her ear the consequences of telling William.

William knew something was wrong and remarked at her growing withdrawal. He began to question whether it was he who had done something to make her regret her decision. She came close to telling him once, but she knew that he would not accept his father's explanation. Instead, he would kill his father. Sarah loved William too much to drive him to such an extreme.

This state of affairs continued for a number of months before she finally relented and agreed upon the annulment. Mr. Carrington, Sr. was quick to vacate her from the property and made sure she boarded a carriage bound for her parent's home. She didn't have time to tell William anything, not even the fact she was pregnant.

## Chapter Fourteen

Time passed. Sarah found work wherever she could, mostly aiding those near death. She wasn't sure if her son was William's or his father's. He was a sickly child since birth and her mother did all she could to help him. However, he died late one autumn night. The following day he was buried in a field near a tree. The only marker was his name—Jonathan.

Sarah was devastated. Regardless of the circumstances of his birth, she loved her child. And there was a time she considered doing harm to herself, but then she thought of William's father and how he would gloat over what he had done to her. That steeled her resolve to live and make a place of her own in this world.

Less than a week after Jonathan died, she decided to go up north to Maryland where she was able to get a job as a nurse.

The hardship of those years instilled in her a commitment to her profession that earned her the respect of the doctors she worked with; and the envy of her peers. There were no more smiles, no frivolity, no more time for books, and no more tears, only work.

Eventually she became the assistant of a reputable surgeon and moved into boarding house for women. It was rented by a spinster who unfortunately was too naive to realize her tenants occasionally entertained men in their rooms at night.

Sarah worked and lived within the confines of the small coastal community. Eventually the name of William Carrington faded into the daily routine of surgeries, therapies and bed pans. That is, until one evening when she was walking home.

She had taken the route many times before through the docks.

A group of naval officers were walking towards her and tipped their hats to her as they passed by. Despite the row of lamplights on the dock, it was difficult to see their faces under the brim of their hats. She acknowledged them with a nod and continued past them. She was a few feet away when she heard one of them say her name. She turned around and looked at the man staring at her, unable to determine who he was.

He removed his hat and smoothed back his dark hair. The moment the lamplight fell on half of his face, she gasped.

"You know this woman, William?" one of his friends asked.

"Indeed, I do," he responded, his eyes fixed on her.

His friend could see that he needed some privacy with the lady and told him they would wait for him at the inn.

The road between the buildings and docks was mostly quiet, but wide open for all to see, which was why she chose this route in the first place. She usually felt safe there.

The silence between them was thick and heavy, like the humid air that offered no reprieve. The only sounds to be heard were the bells from the bobbing buoys, the creaking from the wooden planks on the docks, and the horns from the ships in the distance.

Sarah was the first to break their silence. "You look well, William."

He said nothing, just stared at her caught between confusion and desperation.

She would not wish good health on his father, but she did inquire about the rest of his family.

Again, he did not speak.

Her hand began shaking, which she tucked in her coat pocket.

They stood there without speaking for what seemed like hours rather than minutes. Finally, she had enough and bowed her head to leave.

"Why did you do it?" His voice was low, yet filled with turmoil.

She met his eyes and shrugged.

He took a few steps closer and bent to her eye-level. "Is that all you have to offer, a flippant shrug?"

She pursed her lips, refusing to give her emotions a voice for her sake as well as for his.

His expression was dark, almost as cruel as the looks his father gave her all those years ago. "You left without so much as an explanation of what I did wrong and without giving me the chance to make amends."

She turned away, unable to see him like this.

He grated his teeth as he rasped, "Did I mean nothing to you?"

She closed her eyes, feeling her composure beginning to fail. But she couldn't let that happen. If William truly knew why she had left, the pain he felt now would pale in comparison.

She forced herself to face him and put on the implacable mask she had worn all these years.

He straightened and narrowed his eyes.

Despite his penetrating scrutiny, she remained stoic.

Finally, he shook his head and turned to leave, furious. He was hurrying away but he stopped abruptly and ran his fingers through his hair. He turned around and approached her once more. His face was contorted with despair as he pleaded, "Tell me once and for all if you ever loved me!"

With the last vestige of control she had left she whispered, "Goodbye, William." She turned and left just in time before the tears fell from her eyes.

## Chapter Fifteen

A few years later the newspapers reported the marriage of William Carrington to Miss Hanna Marie Palmer. The wedding was a lavish affair. The groom's father spared no expense. The long list of invitations included everyone in the exclusive circles of society of the times. There was a lot of food and plenty of drinks. The Equestrian Club, an organization in which the bride's family was deeply involved, provided the orchestra for the reception.

Sarah was too busy to give much thought to the comings and goings of the upper crust of society unless they happened to be patients. Although many of them expected to be treated with deference, she treated them with the same aplomb as all her other patients. Nothing less and nothing more.

Despite finding satisfaction in her hectic lifestyle, it was beginning to take its toll on her body and she yearned for a more relaxed life.

Her introduction into the life of a governess proved more challenging than she anticipated, with all its pretention and condescension. However, the children made the effort to adjust to her new livelihood worthwhile.

The first family to hire her needed a great deal of discipline, which she established the moment she set foot inside the colonial mansion. The children adored Sarah. Their parents were snobs, putting more stock in the opinions of their friends than in facts. Her calm discipline gave the children the structure they needed to learn and grow into adolescence with more than just daydreams fluttering in their heads. The eldest son went later on to medical school, inspired by the stories Sarah had shared with him. The second son went into the clergy, despite the fact his parents thought his choice "disappointing." The two daughters turned into well refined ladies, able to play the piano, read Latin and speak French.

The second family was in contrast far too strict. The children were to be seen and not heard at all. Sarah made it a point to take the children out in outings where they could be allowed to play uninhibited by the confines from militant imperatives. Their parents were pleased with her efforts as the children began to excel in their studies. Their daughter showed great promise at letters and secretly wrote poems that Sarah later helped her publish. The only boy, the youngest of the children, followed in his father's footsteps and was eventually accepted into West Point.

Eventually, Sarah found herself back in Wilmington when her mother died. Her father had left her mother years ago and never returned.

Sarah gathered what little savings she had to give her mother a proper burial at the local parish cemetery. The minister was kind enough to host a wake where many came to pay their respects.

She went through the arduous process of going through her parents' things. The land owner was eager to rent the farm to a young family who was to pay five times what her mother had for the same plot of land.

Among her mother's things, she was surprised to find a bundle of letters addressed to her that William had sent. She read the first two, sent a few years ago, going over the night they had met at the docks. He suspected that she was hiding something and felt compelled to find out what it was. The next few went on about his children, a son he named William, Jr., and a daughter named Arianna. He confessed that though he loved his children, he was miserable.

The marriage to Hanna had produced only two things he valued, nothing more. He longed for the intimacy and relationship he had with Sarah, for the joy and solace he found in her arms.

His last letter, sent not more than a few months before her mother died, was the saddest of them all. In it, he pleaded with Sarah to respond to him and begged her to tell him what he could do so they may be friends once more.

She tied the letters back into a bundle and went to Jonathan's grave that afternoon. The tree was still there, the landscape untouched, and the sun spread its rays of warmth over undulating fields.

The headstone showed the signs of time and the name was barely legible. After cleaning it as best she could, she sat next to the grave and proceeded to tell her son everything that had happened since her last visit. She felt a dark dense fog lifting from her mind that kept her safe from the world all these years. She spoke of Mr. Carrington, Sr.; of the days of exhaustion where the unrelenting demands of work eventually numbed the mind; of the nights when she would stare at the ceiling unable to cry anymore; and, of the loneliness that until then she refused to acknowledge.

Sarah took stock of her life and realized that inadvertently she had become a willing victim to Mr. Carrington, Sr.'s manipulations.

Mentally drained and tired, she spent the rest of the afternoon absorbed in the peace and beauty of the place.

That night, the last she would spend in her childhood home, she wrote a letter to William.

She poured her heart and soul into the letter. She wrote everything she wished she had told him years before. However, she left out the key details that led to her decision. Instead, she focused on telling him about her work at the hospital and as governess and informed him of her mother's death. She spoke of the children she worked with, who they were and how they were keeping. The only answer she gave him regarding her decision to leave was to say that his father had offered a compelling argument. His father convinced her that William's career would be adversely affected in the long term if they had stayed together. And for the love she had for him, she left in the hopes he would be happier.

She gave him the address of a friend with whom she maintained regular contact so he could write back, and left her childhood home the following day.

Months passed with no reply. Summer turned to fall and winter was starting to bite in Maryland.

It was one early afternoon, the air was still crisp from a winter storm the previous day, when William called on Sarah at the home of her current employer.

Mrs. Knight, the lady of the house, was intrigued, particularly at the mention of his last name, and showed him in to the sitting room.

"I didn't know you had connections," Mrs. Knight remarked enthusiastically. "I would never imagine a Carrington in my sitting room. I can't wait to tell my friends!"

Sarah was anxious to see him, but maintained her composure as not to encourage any speculation that might make the woman's loose tongue wag.

William stood when Sarah entered the room and shook her hand. "Miss Ellis, please forgive my abrupt visit, but I am in rather a difficult situation and have been forced to seek an immediate solution with which I hope you can help me. Your name was given to me by several close acquaintances who recommended I seek you out."

Sarah gestured for him to sit and took a seat, all the while Mrs. Knight listened around the corner.

"My wife suffers from a terrible affliction that makes it impossible for her to attend to our children, who in turn seem to think it is their purpose in life to scare off every governess that comes into our home." It was all an act, but he was playing it quite well.

It was convincing enough that Mrs. Knight came out from hiding. "You cannot have her," stated Mrs. Knight. "She's already employed by my husband and, I might add, quite content here."

William looked directly at Sarah. "I'll pay you three times what Mr. Knight is paying you."

Mrs. Knight's jaw dropped.

Much to the lady's dismay and protest, Sarah accepted his offer with the condition that she be allowed to first find a suitable replacement for the Knights before taking the job.

William agreed and left.

A month later, Sarah arrived at Carrington Manor for the first time and instantly fell in love with it.

## Chapter Sixteen

The problems in the family became apparent quickly after Sarah arrived. William Carrington, Jr., who was seven years old, was spoiled and unruly. Arianna Carrington, five years old, was the opposite, much too quiet and lacking emotion to the point of apathy. The issues vexing these children could have been attributed to a lack of discipline, at least, to those outside the immediate family. However, Sarah knew that children who were this troubled generally were the result of a much larger problem. Its root cause was Mrs. Hanna Carrington.

The lady of the manor displayed the airs of a spoiled rich woman rather than the wife of an esteemed attorney. She looked at everything and everyone with disdain, grimacing at anything that did not feed her insatiable appetites. As far as she was concerned, she was above the activities of keeping a house in order or of raising children. The measure of her responsibility had been fulfilled by bringing the "brats" into the world in the first place. In her mind, it was the governess' responsibility to care for them. However, she had no problem in indulging the children's proclivity for vulgarity, be it in language or temperament. She insisted that the children explore their "dark nature" in order to have something worth living for.

The first thing Sarah did was to separate the children from their mother, which would have been a dreadful thought to any mother worth her title. But in the case of Mrs. Carrington, the suggestion was well received, and she seemed visibly happy of being rid of the children. Sarah used the excuse that they needed to experience the world and thus took them to Mr. Carrington's apartment-home in Raleigh.

They remained there for nearly a year during which neither child received a single letter from their mother. The children's behavior vastly improved during that time. William, Jr. displayed a proficiency in science and Arianna began to smile often and enjoyed the stories Sarah read to her. In essence, they were learning. Eventually, the children came to love Sarah and she loved them equally. For in her they found not only a teacher, but a friend.

Sarah and William rekindled their love during that year and kept their affair secret for the sake of the children. When she became pregnant with William's child, it was necessary to return to Carrington Manor for her confinement.

Upon their arrival, Mr. Carrington, Sr. had come for a visit and was waiting for them. He had heard that Sarah was the new governess and was clearly intent to settle the matter once and for all. When he saw her condition, he had yet another reason to remove her from their house and their lives for good. The heir to the Carrington dynasty would never be one of her bastard children.

"You bitch!" Hanna exclaimed when she saw Sarah's belly.

Mr. Carrington, Sr. boastfully pointed his finger towards Sarah. "What is she doing here?" He turned to her and ordered, "You will leave this house immediately."

William grabbed Sarah and sheltered her behind him, placing himself between her and his father. "I don't know what you did to her all those years ago because she refuses to tell me, but I know you, Father. You have your little indulgences, just like Hanna does. I have endured the rumors and innuendos long enough and have taken control of my life. Sarah stays and if either of you dare lay one finger on her or our child, I will kill you."

Sarah gasped but remained silent, knowing what it must have taken for him to get to this point.

Mr. Carrington, Sr. shot her a murderous look and left without uttering a word.

Hanna, shocked that her father-in-law had left, went to the parlor table and poured herself a drink.

William marched up to her, grabbed the drink from her hand and threw it into the fireplace.

She protested loudly, shouting vulgarities.

He turned to her, his face twisted with rage. "And you, from now on will behave yourself as a lady, or I will send you back to your family without a single penny."

"How dare you, I'm your wife..."

He gestured to Sarah. "She is my wife. She was my first and my only true wife."

Hanna looked over at Sarah, seething.

Sarah met her gaze without blinking.

## Chapter Seventeen

Stephen James Carrington was born late one summer night. He was William's pride and joy. Though he doted on his youngest son, he spent most of his time with William, Jr. in order to introduce him into the world of law, with an emphasis on criminal law as per the young man's preference.

Arianna and William were never close, but the girl confided to Sarah that she too wanted to get into law. In those days, women were assigned less conspicuous vocations, but Sarah and she would read popular crime novels and try to solve the mystery at the end of the stories. Where Sarah thought the process of solving the mystery was the lure to reading the stories, Arianna was more intrigued by the antagonists and the various methods they employed to carry out their devious plots. But none of those stories could have prepared them for the events that would change both of them forever.

Stephen grew up a very loved, but timid boy. Only those closest to him in the family were privy to his more carefree nature. And like his mother, he desired to see the world and experience its many adventures. He spoke of joining the navy and serve as an officer as his father had done, and secretly wished to taste every spice known to man.

Hanna Carrington chose to spend more time at her mother's house than at the manor, given the strict rules of conduct and that all the liquor was unavailable under lock and key. William kept the key in his possession. Thus Hanna refrained from spending more than a few nights in the house before finding another excuse to leave.

William would have divorced her, if not for his father's threat of disinheritance. However, the Carrington patriarch never again reproached Sarah. Instead, he ignored her, acting as though she didn't exist, even if she were sitting right beside him. Surprisingly, his disdain for Stephen faded as time went on. Those large gray eyes managed to melt the hardness in the patriarch's soul to the extent that he came to adore the child. Indeed, all the love and warmth he had within him was poured into Stephen who quietly sat on his lap as he read the newspaper and held his hand as they walked the gardens. For this, Sarah eventually forgave Mr. Carrington, Sr. for his past transgressions, but never forgot them.

The family law business was doing exceptionally well, having won key lawsuits that brought even more prestige to the firm. The demands of William's time forced him to live in his apartment near his office in the city for months at a time. He could hardly afford a few weeks' rest at the manor before he was summoned back to court.

Hanna took advantage of one of William's particularly long absences to wiggle their way back into their lives. She often threw large parties, inviting her friends in Society to dine and drink as much as they wanted. And she made sure to introduce Sarah as a mere governess to those present.

When the bills began to arrive for these soirees, Sarah broke her code to never disturb William with domestic matters and wrote to him explaining what was happening. He never responded and only later did Sarah learn that Hanna was intercepting the letters and destroying them.

The snobs Hanna called "good friends" from the Equestrian Club were rude, lewd and uncouth. This vulgar coterie practically lived in the house, eating all the food and even breaking the lock to the liquor closet, only later to have more bought at William's expense.

Sarah kept the children in one part of the house, away from Hanna and her companions but she couldn't completely shield the children from their influence.

William, Jr. began smoking cigars and was caught drinking whiskey in the study with a bawdy widow who went by the name of "Kitty." Sarah found Arianna dismembering a mouse which she claimed was purely for scientific reasons. However, the mouse was still alive and not the only creature to fall prey to Arianna's gruesome curiosity. Stephen withdrew into his room and screamed at the top of his lungs whenever Sarah tried to take him outside. He was only six years old. Hunched over his drawings that seemed to have no rhyme or reason, the look in his eyes was that of an old man.

Sarah confronted Hanna one evening in the parlor, after the children had gone to bed. She told Hanna that she was either to stop the parties and remove her friends from the house or she would go to William directly.

"Go ahead," Hanna barked back at her with eyes half closed from intoxication. "I know your little secret, what Mr. Carrington, Sr. did to you. Oh yes, don't look so surprised. He shares a great deal with me, how you seduced him and tried to swindle William out of his inheritance. You think a slut doesn't recognize another slut when she sees one? I know what I am, but you think you deceive everybody else. The life you have been living with William is nothing more than a farce." She gestured to Sarah with her glass of whiskey. "You are just the governess and I,"—the drink spilled as she gestured to herself—"am his lawful wife. In the eyes of the world, you are and will always be his mistress."

Sarah was speechless. For the first time in her life she wanted to kill. Her hands were shaking as she went to the door.

"And don't even think about telling William about all this." Hanna warned before Sarah could leave. "If you do, I'll tell him about you and the old man."

Sarah was forced to endure more parties and more "guests" at the manor. William, Jr. grew restless and ever more defiant, Arianna's morbidity increased to an alarming degree, and Stephen kept on isolating himself from the world.

Eventually, rumors of the lurid activities of the house were beginning to circulate among the more respectable circles. When Mr. Carrington, Sr. got wind of it, he cancelled his and William's appointments so that they may investigate the situation personally. He accused William for bringing Sarah into the house, which would naturally give rise to suspicion and speculation. William remained resolved on the matter, refusing to give his father's arguments any credence. They fought, shouting cruel and hateful things to one another, shattering the fragile relationship they had enjoyed the last six years.

Neither of them knew that these would be the last days they would share together.

## Chapter Eighteen

Sarah was taking one of her afternoon naps to alleviate the headaches that had begun to vex her lately. The nap lasted longer than she anticipated. She awoke as if from a drugged stupor to absolute silence in the house and she quickly became alarmed.

The children were not in their rooms and only a few of the permanent guests remained after the latest party's debauchery.

Sarah found William, Jr. in the basement injecting himself with a drug provided by a half-naked Kitty. Sarah took the syringe from his hand, threw the glass vial to the floor and slapped Kitty hard enough to send her to the ground. She grabbed the woman by the hair, dragged her out of the house and told the groundkeeper to see that she left and never returned.

The others were outraged at her outburst and tried to subdue Sarah, but she managed to slip away and retrieve the rapier William kept in the study. With the blade pointed in their direction, she ordered them to leave.

The front door swung open behind her.

William and his father stood at the threshold, stunned.

She tried to explain what had happened, but the others accosted her and knocked the sword from her hand.

"Get away from her!" William shouted as he yanked them off of her.

She could barely catch her breath as she tried to explain what had been going on in the house. "...I was looking for the children...my head hurt...I didn't know what to do..."

"It's all right, Sarah, we'll search for the children together and then you and the children will leave with me," William said soothingly as his father questioned the others.

He helped her up and they both went from room to room in search of the children.

They were on the second floor landing when they both heard the whimpering of a child on the third floor. By then, his father had come to join them in the search and all three went upstairs.

A music box was playing _Claire de Lune_ behind the closed door of the master suite. Most of the whispers and whimpers were muffled by the music.

William opened the door.

It took them a few seconds to register what they were seeing.

Hanna and the president of the Equestrian Club were in bed, naked. Between them were Arianna and Stephen, also naked.

The two adults were trying to cover themselves with whatever they could find, leaving the children without anything to cover them. The man went on in an incoherent rambling trying to explain that nothing had happened, while Hanna went into a tirade about her rights as a wife and how William's neglect led her to this point.

William and his father both stood motionless as their anger swelled with disbelief. Their faces contorted into a fearful countenance.

Sarah pushed Hanna aside and scooped the children up from the bed and escorted them to their rooms to dress them.

William exploded with rage, shouting so loud that Stephen covered his ears as he screamed in fear.

One of the maids came to Sarah's aid and took both the boy and Arianna to Sarah's room.

William's father was the one to calm him and then spoke for the family.

"Hanna, you will be escorted back to your parent's home and you will never return to this house." He gestured to the other gentleman who had managed to put his trousers on. "If I see or hear you, or any of these degenerates you associate with, on any Carrington property attempting to harass anyone in the family, I will have you arrested for the theft of my son's property, which you all have consumed without impunity. Your _activities_ will be published in all the newspapers. And I will personally see to it that none of you are ever again accepted into Society."

Hanna, who no longer cared that her breasts were exposed as the sheet fell away from her body, went right up to Mr. Carrington, Sr. at the door with a scornful expression. "Why? So you can continue to fuck the governess behind William's back?"

William didn't have time to react to the accusation before his father grabbed a hold of Hanna by the throat and began to squeeze.

William shouted for his father to stop as he tried to pull him away.

Hanna kicked and scratched William's father, pushing him further back into the corridor.

The woman was turning purple and then blue as the life was choked out of her.

William became more violent in his attempts to stop his father. Everyone downstairs was witnessing the events unfold, some were laughing while others gasped in shock.

In a final attempt to free Hanna from his father's grasp, he punched the patriarch's kidneys, hard.

His father released Hanna and struck William hard enough it sent him back towards the railing. The force of the blow and his weight was too much for the wood to hold and it snapped.

Both Sarah and William, Sr. tried to grab him, but he was just out of reach and fell.

William landed on the first floor with a horrific boom powerful enough to rattle the walls.

His father howled and flew down the stairs, but Sarah already knew he was dead.

Blood covered his father's hands as he picked him up and rocked him in his arms, uncontrollably sobbing.

Hanna crawled to the ledge and looked down. She let out a bitter rasping laugh. "Damn you all to hell!"

## Chapter Nineteen

The elder Mr. Carrington never recovered. The loss of his son and the events of that evening were too much for him. No one suspected that behind the powerful façade was a fragile mind. In order to protect his reputation and that of the law firm, a story was circulated to the newspapers, declaring that the long work hours without reprieve had driven William to become irrational and violent. Eventually, the patriarch was confined to his home where it was said he spent many hours weeping as he repeated, "Forgive me my son." On the fifth anniversary of William's death, Mr. Carrington, Sr. hung himself in the stairwell of his house.

William, Sr.'s brother, Mr. Phillip Carrington, took over the familial and financial affairs. He was prepared to fulfill his brother's wishes to have all connections to Hanna and her family and friends severed legally and completely. However, William had changed his will a few years before his death naming Sarah as the lead beneficiary, with only small sums put in trusts for his three children. His intention was to ensure that Hanna couldn't access his money through William Jr. or Arianna, thus giving Sarah full discretion on how his money was distributed. He knew she would take care of his children, even after death. And he was right.

Rather than accept the inheritance outright, she kept it in a trust which stipulated that not until such time as the children proved their worthiness could they claim their inheritance. Mr. Phillip Carrington agreed to let her remain their governess and granted her the ability to make decisions on the children's behalf so long as she consulted him over important matters.

Carrington Manor remained vacant for the most part. The railing had been repaired and the blood scrubbed from the wood floor. However, the groundkeeper reported hearing strange sounds throughout the house, particularly that of a man sobbing when no one else was in the house. William, Jr. lived there for a time, until he too heard the strange noises at night. He quickly returned to the city and went into law, as his father had wished.

He did well for a few years, but his carnal appetites caused him no end of trouble. He only amended his behavior after he was caught with one of the partner's daughters who was barely of age. Under threat of dismissal and disinheritance, he ceased indulging his lust and engaged his mind in other more productive pursuits. Later, when the scandal subsided, he diverted his interests to opiates.

Arianna attracted the interest of many suitors, but only accepted the proposal of a mortician. The young man was hopelessly infatuated with her beauty. They married in autumn and lived together in a house built to serve as a funeral parlor as well. They eventually moved into a new house, far away from the business. Then one day, he left and never returned. Although he didn't file for divorce, he refused to see her again. A few years later, a neighbor contacted the authorities regarding screams coming from Arianna's house. The police discovered her hovering over a servant tied to a bed while she mutilated the woman's body. Over a dozen disfigured and dismembered corpses were found in the attic. They were mostly vagrants, people no one would miss. She was arrested and committed to an institution for the criminally insane for the rest of her life.

Stephen's sensitive heart couldn't cope with the horrors he had experienced during his childhood. So in his despair he followed his grandfather's footsteps and took his own life in the place where his innocence had been taken from him. He left a note with an envelope to his mother, the only one who really knew him.

" _There is no place for a man like me in this world, just as there was no place for you and father. I can only hope the place I am going to will give me the peace I was denied in life. Attached is something I hope will ease your pain."_

Sarah opened the envelope and through tear-filled eyes realized she was holding the annulment papers she had signed decades ago. The papers had never filed with the court. William's marriage to Hanna was not binding, which meant Stephen had been the only legitimate heir. Hanna couldn't even have a legal claim.

Sarah and Stephen's fiancée stayed in touch until the young woman married.

William's inheritance reverted back to Sarah as there was no one alive worthy to receive it. Phillip didn't need it, as he had acquired enough wealth to keep his great-grandchildren comfortable. The rest of the Carrington clan grew more idle and depraved with each new generation.

Sarah tried to live as peacefully as was humanly possible after so much pain and suffering. But her efforts were once again thwarted when she began receiving threatening letters, demanding that she relent her claim to the Carrington fortune. Hanna was suing for defamation of character and for a chunk of the money.

Rather than live in fear, Sarah wrote a letter to the Palmers demanding that they cease sending these hateful letters or she would hand over the journal she had kept all these years to the local authorities and newspapers, along with evidence that Hanna's marriage to William was illegitimate. The public would judge for themselves the depraved nature of their character once and for all.

Their response was swift.

" _Go to hell."_

In light of their _delightful_ reply, Sarah moved as far away as possible and changed her name.

She had resigned herself to a lonely life when she met a kind and caring and childless widower. He owned a small antique shop where he had an assortment of strange collectibles he claimed could speak to him. "At least, figuratively," he chuckled. His name was Ethan.

Sarah accepted Ethan's proposal of marriage and they quietly slipped into the life of an older couple living in a small community. To Sarah and Ethan's delight, they had a son. They named him Jonas.

Jonas was a happy child and grew up like any other boy in the neighborhood, rambunctious and completely oblivious to the darker side of humanity.

Ethan knew that something had happened to Sarah in her previous life, but respected her enough to leave it alone. He too had his own story and had no desire to rehash it with his new wife. He noticed Sarah kept moving a box throughout the house, trying to hide it. At times, she fretted over the thing enough to worry him.

He was the one who took her to the secret vaults which kept in store all manner of priceless treasures. He thought to only rent a small space for a short time, but when Sarah learned she could store her box indefinitely, she immediately opened a perpetual account. Ethan stood in awe when she paid for the fee herself. Where she got the money, he had no idea. She wrote a note and placed it inside the box.

There, the box remained buried along with the forgotten past, waiting for the day a curious soul would find it and rekindle the light of truth from its contents.

~

### Part 3 – The Damned and Repentant
## Chapter Twenty

I sat back in my chair, staring at the journal, and thought of the man I had met in the parlor. William Carrington was a tormented soul, trapped inside a house that would not let him go. But what could I possibly do? My father was the one who handled such ethereal matters. His particular fascination with the dead and their belongings bothered me, I never made that a secret. The dead were gone and nothing, particularly their things, could bring them back. The watch I kept on my dresser never brought my mother back. The framed wedding picture of Grandpa Jonas and Grandma Susanna, which I received shortly after my thirteenth birthday, brought neither of them back. Nor holding my father's favorite pen set brought him back. My eyes went to the pen. My thumb stroked the ridges along its length, finding the worn edges. Everyone I loved was gone and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

I don't know what William had hoped to gain by coming to me. There was nothing I could do about my past, much less his. Sharing this journal now would have no impact for anyone, but only to explain events that no longer mattered to a world that had moved on. And that is how things work. Time goes on with its pathetic droning without regard to the lives affected by it. Perhaps that is its own balm, for as surely as memories and people are forgotten, so is the misery and sadness they experienced.

I flipped through the last, empty pages of the journal and found tucked inside an old business card with a handwritten set of numbers on the back. It was for a bank that had grown over the century into an international financial conglomerate. The address of the branch on the card no longer existed, having been leveled to the ground to make space for multi-level condos as part of a central plan to stop urban sprawl.

I wrote down the set of numbers and left Bertram and his secured catacombs to head over to the nearest branch of the bank on the card. After spending a few hours with the branch manager who made a number of phone calls to track down whatever information she could gather, I learned that the set of numbers were for an account tied to a series of sub-accounts.

"According to our records, the last name on the signature card was for Mr. Isaac Nelson," Ms. Michaels, the bank manager, informed me.

Yet again, here are more secrets that my father kept from me. Did he think so little of me that he felt I was incapable of handling such things?

Ms. Michaels touched my hand. "Are you all right?"

I turned back to the woman and forced a smile. "Isaac Nelson was my father who recently passed away." A lump formed in my throat, putting a stop to any further explanation. I picked up my purse and produced papers proving I was the sole beneficiary of my father's estate. I cleared my throat and eventually found my voice again. "These were drawn by my father's lawyer, proving I am his sole heir."

The woman reviewed the papers and nodded. "Let me change the account information for each account and then I'll print the statements."

I thanked her and went through the process of changing the names on the accounts. Once all the statements were printed, she handed the stack to me.

The sums left me speechless.

I stood up and reached out to shake her hand and thanked her.

"Before you leave, let me give you the address for the other account," she said to me and quickly jotted down the information.

"Why can't you just pull that information up as you did the other one?" I asked.

"I can't. The account is for a lock box at the regional branch office." She smiled as she handed me the note.

I went to the regional branch in Durham just in time before they closed. Ms. Michaels had alerted the branch manager in Durham that I was arriving. He personally escorted me into one of the back rooms inside the bank's vault. I was given the key to the lock box and we both inserted our respective keys to retrieve it. I finally was left alone to review its contents.

Inside an envelope was the deed to Carrington Manor. The name on the deed was Isaac Nelson.

## Chapter Twenty-One

The bank allowed me to use their fax machine to send a copy of the deed to my father's attorney to verify its validity. I replaced the original back in the lock box and left the bank. When I arrived home, I quickly packed some clean clothes and flashlights.

There was one more thing I had to do, one more piece of the puzzle I needed, before I went to the authorities.

I was on route to Carrington Manor when my father's attorney called me back. He confirmed that I now owned the property in its entirety. I didn't tell him of the money.

"Be careful, Hettie," he warned me. "Isaac never told me the full story. I imagine it had something to do with the address I gave you, because he kept calling me to remind me about it. He felt someone was after him, but he never told me who it was."

I wasn't sure what to make of that, as my father had died of natural causes. "I will keep that under advisement, Mr. Campbell." I thanked him and before I hung up, I said, "I will be in touch again soon."

It was late when I arrived at the manor.

The house was dark and gloomy in the moonless night. I unlocked the front door and dropped my bags in the entry. I fumbled through my duffle bag and withdrew several high-powered flashlights. I turned one on and saw that the house remained as I had left it, with one exception.

The lock to the basement door had been broken. A faint smell of bleach was coming from beyond the door.

It easily swung open, expelling the pungent air. I went to the kitchen, grabbed one of the masks I had brought earlier, and went downstairs to the basement. I was shocked by what I saw.

All the boxes that had been there were now gone.

I stepped further in, shooting the beam of light from one end of the empty space to the other, looking for any evidence of the boxes' existence. There was nothing down there, not even dust. In fact, the place looked as though someone had thoroughly cleaned it.

I felt as though I was being watched and quickly turned around to shine the light on who it was, but I was alone.

I was looking around me, feeling quite uneasy when a realization hit me.

The mold was gone.

"Mrs. Schroder probably had someone clean the basement," I thought out loud.

Realizing how foolishly I was behaving, I marched back up the stairs and sat down on the wingback chair in the parlor. A giggle erupted from within me and soon I found myself laughing at the whole thing. It was surprisingly therapeutic, as the anxiety melted. Suddenly, the place didn't seem so sinister after all.

I looked around me, absorbing the fact this beautiful house and the property actually belonged to me. There would be a legal battle, but I would be damned before I let anyone destroy this house.

I went into the entry, gathered my bags and went upstairs to the room I now knew once belonged to Sarah. I put my things away by the light of an oil lamp and went back downstairs to the parlor. As I built the fire in the hearth, I thought of all the things I would do the following day, including airing out the house, removing the tags on the furniture and cancelling the appointment with the appraisers. Starting tomorrow, I will restore this house to its previous grandeur and start the paperwork to turn it into a museum.

I made a cup of tea and settled down in front of the fire. The honeyed liquid slid down my throat with soothing warmth further calming me. For the first time in a very long while, I felt at home. Despite the satyrs with their jackal faces, the creaks, the howling of the wind against the beveled glass windows, the wavering shadows, and the sound of footsteps coming from upstairs, I was content. I saw Carrington Manor through Sarah's eyes, the house William had built. I could see his elegance and wit reflected all around, his verve for life, and his strong yet peaceful nature.

I turned to one of the satyr statues and was startled to see a face staring at me.

The specter approached me, and said apologetically. "Once again, I have frightened you."

I put the tea down on the table. "It's all right. Please come, sit with me."

He came towards the other chair across from me, seeming to glide over the wood floor.

Coming into the light, he appeared paler than before. His cheeks had become hollow, as though he hadn't eaten a decent meal in some time.

"Can I make you something, perhaps warm up some stew or prepare a bit of tea?" I rose to my feet. "I have some lovely lemon cakes that go well with it."

He gestured for me to stay. "Please, do not bother. I am sure you are right about the cakes, but I prefer your company."

I sat back down and he settled more comfortably in his seat.

Firelight played over his features as he stared into the fire, at times appearing baleful.

I imagined Sarah looking into the same face. "William, there is something we need to discuss," I said.

He turned to me.

"I know what happened here."

A dark veil of sadness fell upon him, the lines on his face deepened, and he seemed to age right before my eyes.

"What happened wasn't your fault." I turned to the fire, unable to look in his eyes, because I knew I really had no right to say what I wanted to and that I had yet to find peace in my own life. "Things...inexplicable things happen at times that are impossible to accept. Guilt is a very corrosive emotion that can eat away at one's soul."

"With all due respect, you were not there," he said tersely.

"True," I acknowledged. "But do I have to be there to understand what it is to face the unfathomable loss of one's innocence?"

He watched me for a time in silence and then ruefully lowered his eyes. "No."

I got up and knelt down before him. "The curse that has befallen this family can be lifted. In spite of all the tragedy, there has also been deep and profound love. Together, we can bring the truth to light, to share your story with the world that it might inspire others as it has inspired me."

He leaned closer to me, skeptical. "The dead won't let it rest, Hettie."

I shrugged. "I'm not worried about the dead, William. It is the living that usually causes all the problems."

The hint of a smile wrinkled the corners of his eyes.

I was completely caught off guard when he leaned over and kissed me. His lips were cold as ice.

## Chapter Twenty-Two

I woke up the next morning feeling invigorated. After I got ready for the day, I opened every window in the house to let in the cool and refreshing sea air.

The morning sun streamed through the tall windows at the entrance lobby and parlor, casting light into the stairwell. I stood at the base of the stairs, in the very spot where Mr. William Carrington fell to his death. I knelt and looked around to see any trace left of that terrible night. The wood planks had been replaced in recent years. The new planks had been distressed to blend with the rest of the structure.

I looked up towards the railing where William had fallen and saw the face of an older man, his hair white and the pallor of skin was ashen. His expression was that of horror and alarm, his mouth agape in a silent howl.

I drew back as fear struck me. Never had I seen anything more terrifying in my life.

I heard a man weeping bitterly at my feet and I looked down.

There was no one there, but I could still hear him before it suddenly stopped.

I looked up again, but the old man was gone.

I rushed towards the door when I heard each window in the third floor shut one by one, then those in the second floor, and lastly I saw them shut on their own in the first floor where I stood.

I began to run faster and felt a gust of cold air rush past me. The front door flew open and bounced against the wall.

My heart raced as I exited the house. I was so grateful when I saw two cars approaching, the charcoal Mercedes and a police cruiser.

Mrs. Schroder saw me and quickly got out of her car. "Miss Nelson, what happened? You look very upset."

"I think I saw someone inside," I told her.

Officer Perry came running up with one hand on his gun. "I'll go check it out. You ladies stay out here."

I nodded, relieved to see him.

Mrs. Schroder offered me a bit of bottled water, which I accepted and gulped down.

We waited out there as a few storm clouds drifted in from the sea.

Officer Perry eventually emerged looking pale. "I didn't find anyone in there, but something is definitely going on inside."

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

"I never liked this house," he admitted to Mrs. Schroder. "The noises and creepiness..." He visibly shivered.

"It's an old house," Mrs. Schroder insisted. "These types of houses make lots of noises, it's quite natural. And the creepiness no doubt is due to the lack of electricity. Frankly, it should have been torn down years ago."

The thought made me sick. "I'm glad it wasn't. In fact, I don't think it should be destroyed at all."

Officer Perry chuckled. "Don't tell me you like the place. After everything that you've had to deal with, I would think of all people you would want to put as much distance between you and this house as possible."

"On the contrary," I said. "The house is in excellent condition and would make a find museum."

Mrs. Schroder looked at me with consternation. " _Museum_? Absolutely not! Mr. John Carrington might have considered it, but he's gone. Besides, Edward has already signed an agreement with the development company. No, this ocean front property is far more valuable than _that house with its history_."

"John Carrington?" I asked.

"Edward's older brother." Mrs. Schroder ruefully sighed. "It was such a tragedy, the way he died. The trees on the property are easily toppled in a good storm, as you well know. While he was driving up to the house one evening, a tree fell and crushed him and his car. Everyone at the firm was in shock. He tried his best to rebuild the Carrington legacy."

"He was a bit of a playboy, if you ask me," Officer Perry said. "He thought he was better than everyone else and his fascination with this house was rather disturbing."

"I'm sorry to hear about Mr. Carrington," I offered to Mrs. Schroder. I then asked, careful to hide my eagerness, "What did he look like?"

There was a peculiar look in her eyes as she answered, "Tall, dark hair, and an unforgiving face with rigid features." She became irritated in that moment and asked, "Why you want to know?"

I shrugged. "Just curious."

The woman stared at me for a long time, seeming to assess my motives. She blinked on a mask of politeness, but she was undoubtedly annoyed. "We should go inside."

"Yes," I agreed. "I have something I need to discuss with you."

Her brow arched, but she said nothing and followed me into the house, with Officer Perry behind her.

I was still uncomfortable entering the house. My eyes darted from one room to another as I held my breath. I expected to find another face looking at me, but was relieved to see no one was inside except the three of us. Still, I kept glancing back to the stairwell and the windows in the parlor.

Sensing my discomfort, Mrs. Schroder touched my arm. "Perhaps we should go. You don't look well, Miss Nelson."

I shook my head. "I'm fine, but I think you should sit down." I gestured to one of the wingback chairs.

Mrs. Schroder remained standing, no longer hiding her displeasure.

In that instant, I realized she knew. "It's about the property."

There was no reaction from the woman, but Officer Perry drew closer with a bit too much interest.

"What about the property?" he asked, all friendliness gone from his voice.

"It has come to my attention that the property does not actually belong to Mr. Edward Carrington, but to me," I said. "I have all the documents and have forwarded them to my lawyer who can answer any questions you may have on the matter."

"This house has been in the Carrington family for generations," Perry declared.

I noticed he did not argue the fact I had the deed. "I can't explain why my family never claimed the house, but I am claiming it, which makes Mr. Carrington's agreement with the developers null and void."

"Like hell!" Officer Perry moved forward as though to attack me, but Mrs. Schroder barred the way with her arm. He looked at her angrily. "You aren't just going to let her get away with it, are you?"

The seething hatred she had for Sarah was plainly evident as she spoke to me, "This house belongs to the Carrington family, not the offspring of one of its _governesses_."

"So what is your stake in all this, Mrs. Schroder?" I asked. "Clearly, it is more than just the money you're after, since you were the one who sent the letters to my father insisting he come here."

The woman feigned an amiable tone. "Miss Nelson, you're clearly not well. No doubt the mold did get to you, and with all the problems you've had in recent months it isn't a wonder. I can't blame you, losing your best friend and your father in less than a year. The woman was like a sister to you and the manner of her death was so horribly violent. And given that you were estranged from your father, it must be hard on your own. It isn't a surprise you're struggling to cope."

"Yes, it is so sad." A wide, sinister grin formed on the officer's lips, however, I knew by then who he really was.

Their plan wouldn't work, I told myself. However, my hands began to shake. "I am not insane."

"Of course not, Miss Nelson," Mrs. Schroder cooed. "It wasn't your fault you were fired from your last job. The Dean of History clearly didn't understand your situation and assumed you were unfit to continue teaching at the university when you began talking to yourself. He misunderstood that you could talk to Jan's spirit. It's only natural you would reach out to her to find comfort. After all, the Dean didn't know of your relationship with your father and the difficulties you've had with him after your mother's suicide."

I drew back. "You've been spying on me?"

" _Spying on you_? Miss Nelson, please. That kind of information doesn't remain secret from an employer. All I had to do was make a few phone calls to find out just how sick you really are, but I wanted to give you a chance to prove yourself." The woman sighed with an exaggerated shrug. "Unfortunately, you are indeed a very sick woman. In fact, so sick you think you're Sarah and that you're having an affair with William Carrington. You've become obsessed with her,"—she ran her nails over her arm, drawing red lines of blood—"so much so that you've begun to lash out at me."

I recoiled back. "You're crazy!"

"Hit me, Edward," she told him.

He obeyed and struck her hard.

She was knocked back and her lip was split.

I tried to run towards the door, but Edward wrapped his arms around my waist and swung me against the wall. I was disoriented long enough for him to grab my wrists and drag me towards the basement. "Let me go!" I bit his hand and didn't let go until he released me.

I fell to the floor and scrambled to get away.

He grabbed my feet and continued to drag me down to the basement.

I grabbed the door jam and held on as hard as I could.

Mrs. Schroder came up and kicked my fingers.

As I screamed from the pain she continued to kick my hands. I could no longer hold onto the frame and pried bits of wood off it as I held on to keep from being pulled down the stairs.

The violence in which he dragged me and the impact on my body as he dragged me down each step made it impossible for me to keep a hold on anything.

I desperately tried to kick him, but he was stronger than I and held my ankles as if his hands were vices.

He dragged me to the center of the basement. Only a small amount of light came from the narrow window near the ceiling.

For only a brief hazy moment I saw the chains and the pulley system bolted above me.

He released my ankles and I tried to get away, bracing myself to push past Mrs. Schroder who was blocking the exit, but he grabbed me by my hair, pulled me up and slammed his fist into my face.

My cheek felt as though it had exploded. I was helplessly semiconscious as he clamped the chains on my wrists and pulled me up until I hung there like a side of meat, my feet not touching the ground.

I screamed at the top of my lungs.

Edward mocked me by screaming as well, calling for help. His laughter stopped abruptly when we all heard a loud crash upstairs. He turned to his wife. "See? I'm not crazy. I told you this place is haunted."

"So what?" she spat back. "They will have no place to haunt soon enough." She pointed to me. "It's time for her to join them."

The shackles were biting into my skin, but I kept trying to fight my way out. I could feel the metal cuffs slipping as I struggled. I could also feel warm blood trickling down my arm.

Edward turned to me, his pupils almost black with lethal intent. Another crash above us put fear into those eyes. "We need to get out of here," he told the woman.

"Not until we know for sure she's dead," she pressed. "They never found John's body and I don't want this bitch to slip through our hands. The explosion will take care of the evidence."

Officer Perry, or better yet Edward, wasn't convinced.

Mrs. Schroder gestured towards the brick wall at the far end. "You did put the last of the propane tanks in there, didn't you?"

"Of course I did!"

I looked over at the hole I had seen earlier and it was much larger. Beyond I could barely discern the outlines of the many tanks. By my estimation, I had no doubt there was enough to obliterate everything, including the house.

I struggled harder to be free of the shackles. The metal kept ripping through my hands as I slipped further down.

"Then get on with it!" cried Mrs. Schroder.

He pulled out a knife from his belt and turned to me.

Then we all heard it.

Sounds of footsteps were coming from above us, heavy like a booted stride. Then the narrow window began to rattle in the basement.

"Who is up there!" shouted Mrs. Schroder.

Everything went silent.

"Go and see who it is," ordered the woman.

Edward turned to head up the stairs. His foot didn't even touch the first step when the door suddenly slammed shut. His face lost all its color.

Disgusted at her husband, the woman pushed him aside, marched up the stairs and tried to open the door without success. She pulled and yanked, but the door wouldn't budge.

"Give me your knife!" She barked as she impatiently gestured for it.

He gave it to her and she attempted to wedge it between the door and the frame.

My hands finally slipped free and I fell to the cement floor.

Edward spun around towards me at the very moment the door flew open, hurling his wife down the stairs. She crashed against him and they both landed hard on the floor.

I scrambled to my feet and looked for either an escape or something to defend myself with.

Mrs. Schroder recovered enough to pull a gun on me. She got up and came towards me. "You're going nowhere."

Her husband grabbed the knife and groaned as he rose to his feet. "Just shoot the bitch."

"They will find the bullets, you idiot." She turned back to me. "I will only use it if necessary. Now slit her throat before that door closes and jams again."

I stepped back, feeling trapped and helpless, and then froze.

A shadow floated down the stairs behind them, moving stealthily towards Edward.

The woman took notice that my fear had nothing to do with the knife and gun pointed at me and quickly spun around. She saw the dark figure and rage filled her eyes. "I knew it!"

Edward turned around in time to receive a blow that knocked him down and the knife out of his hand.

I wanted to dive for that knife but saw that Mrs. Schroder was about to shoot her gun. So I dove for her instead.

The gun discharged the bullet, which barely missed Edward and struck the wall.

I heard Edward choking next to me as I tried to take the gun out of Mrs. Schroder's hands. My blood made it difficult for either of us to grab a hold of it for long.

"Get off me, bitch!" shouted the woman.

I struck my forehead against her nose as hard as I could. I heard the back of her head hit the cement.

She let go of the gun and I was able to get to my feet.

I pointed the weapon to Edward. "It's over," I declared with more strength than I thought I had.

"Get out of here, Hettie," ordered a deep voice.

I shook my head at the specter who had become more than just a friend. "Not without you."

"I'm already dead," he said. "I need you to live, to tell my story."

"Don't ask me for that," I begged. "I wasn't there for my best friend or my father when they died. I won't abandon you or this house."

"Let it go, Hettie," he urged, struggling with his arm around Edward's throat. "It isn't your time to die, it i time to live."ie. It'in my hand. " I won'her. " hit the cement.

ted it towards the dark fet Mo the dead. ou a chance, becauses time to live. If you can't live for yourself, then live for me."

Mrs. Schroder was starting to recover and Edward was thrashing more violently.

"Go now!"

I slipped past them and ran up the stairs. I went straight to my car but my purse was in the house. I heard the police radio and rushed to open the door of the police car.

"Is anyone there? I need help at Carrington Manor..."

A loud explosion shook the ground.

I turned to see the next one that blew half of the house away. The flames immediately engulfed the rest.

"...identify yourself...what is going on...Miss...?" The police radio kept going, but I was unable to speak or move as I watched the house burn to the ground.

## Chapter Twenty-Three

Business was slow at the antique shop, which provided me enough quiet time to finish some paperwork.

It was close to lunch when I heard the bell jingle at the front door. One of the ladies from the local relief society came in.

"Those mason jars you sold me worked perfectly," she said as she approached and then placed her handbag on the counter. "I put them on the window sill and they look lovely under the morning sunlight."

I smiled, knowing Jan would be glad to know someone enjoyed them as much as she had.

Her eyes roamed the cluttered yet homey shop I now called my second home. "You mentioned you had acquired a tea set that I might be interested in."

"Yes, I have it here..."

She bought the set and a few more items for a wedding present for her niece and left with her bag and a contented smile.

A few more hours passed before I saw the postman put a parcel into the box out front. I waved to him as he left to head over to the candy shop next door.

I opened the postbox and pulled out several bills and a large manila envelope from Mr. Campbell, who was now my attorney.

I opened it and read the papers confirming the final transfer of the deed. I went back inside and put the official documents into the filing cabinet, along with the other papers related to the Carringtons.

I picked up the newspaper clippings on a series of articles related to the Carrington family and their connections with the mob. One unidentified individual in the family was able to provide evidence and eye-witness testimony to the authorities that helped bring down a number of key members, including a notorious criminal connected to a string of murders in the area. Apparently, his daughter died at the Carrington Manor explosion. His son-in-law, Edward Carrington, and he were in the midst of negotiating a development for a resort on Carrington land. Several governmental regulators were implicated but were cleared of any malfeasance when they accepted early retirement.

One person did survive the blast at the house. He was barely alive and a portion of his body badly burned. He was unconscious when the paramedics pulled him into the helicopter. I identified him before they lifted him.

I remember the police recognizing the police car Edward had been using. Their silence on the matter was telling, so I decided to wait for a lawyer to tell my story. I'm glad I did.

I was able to return to my own life and try to put the pieces together as best I could. It was slow at first, but eventually I found it easier to get up in the morning, go to work, eat, smile, breathe and live.

I closed the filing cabinet and went back into the shop.

The owner of the stationary store across the street was talking to a gentleman who had his back turned to me and was leaning against a black Bentley that was parked in front of my shop.

I watched them as the stationary owner eyed the vehicle as though it were a supermodel posing provocatively. His face went red when he saw me looking at them.

The owner of the car turned around and smiled.

I thought I would never again see John's face again when they lifted him in the medical helicopter. There was a much healthier glow to his skin. He had gained some weight, which made him look stronger. His hair was combed back and his tailored clothes hugged his masculine form in a way that made his graceful movements emphasize his lean physique. A long-sleeve silk shirt covered the burns on his left arm.

I watched him say goodbye to the other man and come inside my shop. In his hands were a dozen red roses.

"Hello, Hettie," he greeted with a smile.

I glanced down at the flowers, unsure what to say.

"They are for you." He handed them to me.

"Thank you," I offered as I accepted them.

He sensed my unease and took a few steps back. "Did I catch you at a bad time? I suppose I should have called first."

"No, it is fine," I said. "I'm glad you came."

We both stood there in awkward silence.

"I have been reading your column in Mystery," he remarked. "It's very good."

"I changed the names to protect the innocent," I quipped.

He smiled and nodded. "Thank you."

There was another long pause of silence.

"I wanted to call," he finally said.

I put the flowers on the counter in order to avoid his gaze. "I didn't expect one."

"Maybe so, but you deserved one."

I shook my head. "It's only been about a year since the explosion at the house and you've been quite busy, recovering and getting your life back together."

His smile faded and he looked at me intently. "You could have kept the money and sold the property."

"Yes," I said softly. "But isn't what Sarah would have wanted. She held onto the money and deed for a worthy Carrington. It took a while, several generations in fact, but at least I found one."

The smile finally reached his eyes. "That means a great deal to me, coming from you."

"I'm not the one who faced the daily death threats from the mob." I met his eyes. " _You_ did that in order to end their corruption."

"It wasn't so difficult once other victims came forward."

"Perhaps," I said. "However, I imagine they wouldn't have had you remained quiet. You contended with the brunt of the retaliation. Thanks to you, some very bad people are facing justice for their crimes."

He reached out and caressed my cheek. "You gave me the courage to fight."

I slipped my fingers around his hand and eased it away from my face. "I'm not Sarah and you're not William, John."

He drew closer and took my other hand. "I am only thinking of a woman who was not only willing to die for me, but to live for me as well. I'm not asking you for anything more than you're willing to give, but I would like a chance to start over. We didn't really get to know each other. If you would let me, I'd like to do just that and see what comes of it."

I saw what it took for him to rise out of the ashes to be the man standing before me that day. I saw the strength and will he possessed to fight those who would bring him down. Yet, the darkness within remained in the lines on his face, like scars in his soul.

What makes us believe in curses? Perhaps it is the words spoken with such hatred they become the venom that poisons our minds. Or perhaps it is our fear that feeds it as despair chokes the light of hope. I do know this, that the mind is a fragile thing, that there is a fine line between hopelessness and madness. But who am I to judge a man? We all struggle with demons from our past, feeding on our sanity until there is none left. What separates us isn't our faith or lack of it, but the will to live and find some measure of happiness in spite of the chains that would bind us to the past. Only in the lucid moments where the conscious mind is able to absorb the beauty around us can we find peace at last.

With an all-encompassing embrace I gave him my answer in a kiss.

# Legal Information

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by RM Brand  
All rights reserved.

RM Brand Productions  
Visit my web site at www.rosabrand.net.

Editing services provided by Kathleen Yoshida.

Second eBook Edition: October 2013
