I look down at her as I speak. “What does that have to do with anything, Mam?”
She sighs. “I am unsure, but it looks like a brand that was burnt off.”
Of course, Evelyn took something, and we can’t figure it out. It’s looking more like I will have to take care of my unwanted company sooner rather than later.
Things are about to get interesting.
“Thank you for informing me. If you get any more information,” before I could finish, the luminescence from headlights shimmers across the shelves.
Chapter 16
Emory
"Tochoose between life and letting go is the hardestdecision of all."
As my eyes flutter open, their movements are quick like butterfly wings. I allow my vision to clear before I rise like the dead to sit upright on the edge of the bed. The last thing I remember was Oliver telling me a fairy tale.
Scanning the room, my gaze pauses for a moment when I notice a rose that is pinning something beneath it, and I lean over to see that it is a piece of paper. The calligraphy is stunning, like the script you find on scrolls at the Vatican—or something like that.
Is this how it's always going to be, receiving mysterious letters from this...man?
I chuckle slightly, as I twist my torso, to reach across the bed and confiscate the objects. Once in my hand, I smell the flower, grinning from ear to ear, as the floral scent invades my sinuses. Then, I open the note and read it.
Leaping from the memory foam mattress, I spring to the wardrobe, with as much excitement as a child has on the morning of their birthday, knowing the entire day is going to be about them. Learning my lesson from last time—and the fact it is still measurably dark outside and horrifyingly cold in the room already—I find something a little more flexible and less revealing. Throwing my hair up in a loose bun I set forth from my room, on an expedition to the garden.
Just as I am closing the door, I hear crashing and a sequence of loud thuds. Fighting the urge to investigate, while my legs are incapacitated—like hinges that have gone a long time without oil, exposed to the weather. Finally, I can move, and I find myself skipping down the grand staircase. I can't help but glance back.
I knew I shouldn’t have. As I turn, I feel a rush of air—cold and staticky—causing my hair to stand on end. Then, a fog begins to rise and shift around me. I am glued to my spot, unable... to... even… breathe. My eyes dart from side to side, lingering long enough to recover their focus, then blur again. Suddenly, a face manifests before me.
What am I seeing right now?
Is it looking at me?
The phantom being is gone just as quickly as he had formed, I backstep bruising my back on the banister. Before fear has the chance to cripple me again, I turn and sprint out of the manor to thegarden. Making it to the archway, mesmerized as the rose bush materializes in front of me.
Aw fuck.
A vine protruding from the earth trips me, but I catch myself, landing on my hands and knees. Once I steady my breathing, I pick myself up, and brush myself off, walking forward to the lone bush of roses that matched the one left in my room—progressively growing in the distance.
Now, at its base, I observe the stone... my eyes fall on the scripture—I drop my voice to a low octave, my words are breathy as I read it aloud.
“T’was an age of miracles, it was an age of art, it was an age of excess, and it was an age of satire.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Such a beautiful memorial.Hers and my great-grandfathers' names are forever etched in stone. Upon looking closer, hidden in the shadows of the well-kept rose bush was another placard. Careening closer, I read:
“Eternally shall I be a thorn upon the stem of thy Rose.”
Here lies:
Oliver Albert Gaston
1899-1929
Adrenaline rushes through my veins as my heart rate quickens. Flashes of every image I had of him flooding my mind, distorting it, detaching all rational thought. I am startled by a shuffle in the bushes. Swiveling, I position myself so that I can flee—if necessary. A sudden scream breaks the silence in the now rancid air. I bolt for the archway—that is, until a man breaks through the darkness, nearly knocking me to the ground. Thankfully, I still had a quickness about me in my impaired state and moved before he could.
Enthralled by the events that are playing out before me, I watch as he trips on the same vine I did—and hits his head on the stone beneath the roses. Goose-bumps kiss my skin when the same fog I encountered inside, coils and builds at my feet. Wind brushes against my side as the misted man approaches, his posture indicating dominance, his action portraying something more monstrous.
