Page 67
The secret chamber.
The house on the other side of the walls. The one I read about, used to hide the slaves during the massacre. A place I remember hiding in, as well. For the first time since I’ve set foot in this estate, a sweeping sense of familiarity overcomes me. Perhaps because this other side of the wall is the only space inside the house that hasn’t been mutilated and defaced.
Visuals of running through the rooms. Reading. Drawing. Wandering, as children do. Whispered words through the walls. Laughter.
My feet carry me through one of the archways, just as in memories when I rushed toward the sound of voices. A small square vent in the wall peers in on an empty room. More memories slip through my head.
Brie.
A girl my age sits in one of the chairs of Daddy’s office, and beside her, an older woman.
“She talks at home with me and her sister, but won’t talk to her teachers, or classmates.”
“Your granddaughter suffers from selective mutism.” My father sits on the other side of the desk, talking with the lady. He always talks to strangers in his office. “Likely due to the trauma of what happened to her mother. Do you mind if I speak with you in private for a moment?”
Nodding, the woman leans toward the little girl beside her. “Baby, I’m gonna step in the hallway for a minute with Doctor Pierce. You stay here, okay?”
The little girl nods in response, and the two adults leave her alone, by herself. Daddy says I’m not supposed to say a word while he works, but the way the girl keeps looking back at the door and the worried look on her face tells me she doesn’t like to be alone.
“Psst!”
She whips her head around.
I tug on the vent to pull it away from the wall, as I’ve done before, and shove my hand through, waving it to get her attention. “Down here!” Pulling my hand back through, I watch the girl frown, but she slides out of her chair and crawls across the floor toward me, anyway.
Just short of the wall, she tips her head, looking in.
“Are you one of my Daddy’s patients?”
The girl nods.
“Well, can’t ya talk?”
She nods again, instead of answering.
“I’m Céleste.” I reach a hand through the hole to shake hers, just like Daddy taught me is the polite thing to do, when meeting someone for the first time.
A warm hand grips mine, and I smile.
“I’m Brie,” she whispers, as if she doesn’t want to be heard. “What are you doing down there?”
The memory fades, and I’m once again standing in the dark room.
“This is where you kept me, isn’t it? Where you hid me away,” I muse to myself. On the other side of the walls. Out of sight. The warmth of the surroundings tells me it wasn’t done out of malice. That he was trying to keep me safe. My safe haven. Inside the very heart of our home.
Another archway passes through to what looks to be a playroom, with dolls lying around, and a rocking horse propped in the corner. I kneel down to pick up a music box, one I recognize, and smile. I lift the lid from over the twirling ballerina inside, and hear the soft chime of You Are My Sunshine. A message etched on its mirror beneath the lid reads: A child is the light in a dark world, and your radiance is as bright as the sun. Love always, Daddy. It was a gift for my tenth birthday, and I remember twirling around the room, pretending to be the ballerina inside.
Closing the lid, I carry the box with me as I keep on with my exploration. Through a third archway that seems to be precariously supported by a seriously damaged beam, I find a cellar of wine stored away, and I have to ignore the niggle of excitement on finding such a treasure. I don’t bother to venture in there, though, for fear that the ceiling might collapse if I accidentally bump into that beam. The fourth archway takes me to what looks to be a study, with an old, ornate desk that reminds me of something from another era, with its beautiful craftsmanship. Behind the desk are shelves lined with books. So many books. One sits propped open on a desktop book lectern, and I amble closer to see the Bible opened to Revelations. Running my fingers over the pages reminds me that this was the last thing my father studied here.
Other books lying about snag my attention. Closer inspection of their spines reveal one major theme--the occult and Christianity. Every version of the Bible, alongside volumes of satanic references, like good and evil stretched across every shelf. Objects made of twigs and twine, hanging from the top of the case. What looks to be voodoo dolls lying about.
“I spent hours here. Reading. Studying. Trying to understand.” At the sound of my father’s voice, I twist to find him standing beneath the archway, a sense of pride coloring his expression as he looks around. “It was easy to get lost in it all.”
Reports painted my father as a kind, but obsessive, recluse, who eventually shut himself into this house. I knew firsthand how his demeanor shifted over time.
“What were you trying to understand?”
“Human nature, mostly.” He nods toward the desk, and I slide onto the leather chair, smiling as I recall sitting here at an earlier time, spinning and spinning until I was dizzy.
