Happily Never After Page 2

  I finished my sandwich and closed the book, it was impossible to concentrate. Nights like this, I immersed myself in the history of what I’d found in the attic. It was nice to get lost in the lives of other people in a different era.

  The day before, I came across a small old trunk full of yellowed letters, birth and marriage certificates and other important papers. Since I was too restless to do anything else, I got up and pulled the trunk over to my living area. I grabbed a notebook to catalog what I found and made myself comfortable on the floor. Mama had been a widely known archivist and historian. It’s something she must have passed on to me because I couldn’t get enough of it.

  A slight rustle stirred the space beside me and the humid night air cooled to an almost uncomfortable temperature. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the very faint figure of a small, black boy. Mama always mentioned being aware of his presence and how she came to count on his company when she found herself alone. Even Daddy, who grew up in the house, told me about the boy and how he'd come to rely on the boy's comforting friendship.

  I tried to watch as he sat on the floor beside me. If I looked at him straight on, the image disappeared. As far as I could tell, he was about seven or eight years old and wore tattered clothes. He always calmed me or made me feel content. When I was a little girl, I named him George. The truth is, I might never find out his real name, but that didn’t stop me from talking to him.

  “Hey, George, you’d think since I worked my butt off today and graduated high school and had my life threatened I’d be dead tired.” I grinned. “Sorry, about the pun. I’m just excited to see what kind of stuff is in this box. It’s a welcome distraction from this thing earlier. I don’t really want to talk about that. I glanced at the dates last night and it’s the 1870’s and on. Wonder if that was when you lived?”

  A cold pressure appeared on my arm, as if he’d laid his hand there and I caught sight of him nodding his head. Reaching into the trunk, I pulled out a stack, savoring the musty smell and the dry, wrinkled feel of the century old papers

  “These are letters, to a William Jennings from Catherine Roberts. That would have been one of my ancestors.” I paused to read a couple. “She’s thanking him for helping her family out and she’s talking about their upcoming marriage. But it just doesn’t sound the way a woman who’s about to be married, the wording sounds too polite and stiff, even for those times. Which means it must have been an arranged marriage.”

  The dates on the letters and Catherine’s mention of this man’s assistance made me wonder if William helped our family out during the Reconstruction.

  When Savannah surrendered to that jerk General Sherman, he stopped his burning of the South and spared the city. Still, it wasn’t safe. The War had bankrupted the once proud South and the people of Savannah were hurting. I remembered reading about how the Roberts’ cotton empire crumbled after the War. Maybe this William guy gave them a loan.

  “Oh, here’s a wedding announcement for William and Catherine. And her death certificate, less than a year later. How sad.”

  I picked up another stack of more official looking papers. The first was a letter addressed to the law office of James Owens from the Roberts family attorney. I read aloud.

  “While the Roberts’ family understands your grief during this sad time, they regret to inform you, again, that they will not accept your offer to purchase the home on Lincoln Street.

  “The Roberts estate has always passed to the daughters of the family and while you were married to Catherine for the length of ten months, she still has a younger sister, Daphne, who will stand to inherit in Catherine’s absence. As her husband, you do not have any legal right to the home and not being a citizen of the South, would not understand our traditions.

  “Your numerous and increasingly large monetary offers are appreciated but wasted effort at this time. Mr. Roberts and his wife will be eternally in your debt for your previous assistance in such a difficult time but have absolutely no interest in selling their family home.”

  This William Jennings guy must have thought himself entitled to the house after Catherine died. It made me wonder about the circumstances under which Catherine married someone who was obviously a Yankee, which back then was almost a crime.

  Daddy once told me about how the Yankees flooded the South once the War ended. They swarmed like a bunch of buzzards, circling over the remnants and picking off those who were hurting the most. Even though they resented the Yankees, the Southerners were forced to work with them. It was the only way to stay above water financially and be a part of the rebuilding. Some of the older families held on to their grudges still, as if their lives depended on it.

  Absently, I mumbled aloud, “I wonder how William took the news about not getting the house.”

  I found my answer in the next letter, a hand written attachment to the one I’d just read from the family’s attorney.

  “I feel it is my duty to warn you, Mr. Roberts, that Mr. Jennings’ demands and requests appear to be more desperate with each attempt. He has ceased communicating to me through his lawyer and has called on me several times in person. You know what kind of man he is, sir. I must warn you, do not think him an irritation that will soon go away.

  “You knew my aversions concerning the union of your eldest daughter to a Yankee from the beginning. Regardless of what you thought you owed him, I feel he will not be satisfied until he has finished your family. The mysterious circumstances involving Catherine’s death should not be ignored.

  “Please, as I believe for the safety and prosperity of your family, we must find a way to pacify him before it becomes too late.”

  I blew out a breath. “Did you hear that, George? The ‘mysterious circumstances’ of Catherine’s death. This William guy must have been a real mental case.”

  In answer, the letter I read blew off the stack, revealing a newspaper article so brittle and faded it was hard to make out the words. After studying it for a few minutes, it became hot to the touch.

  The article mentioned the unexplained disappearance of William Jennings, who was last seen leaving his home. After days of searching, the authorities believed he met an unfortunate end. On a related note, at the end of the article, Mrs. Margaret Roberts, mother to William’s deceased wife, was treated for ‘emotional exhaustion’ and was being watched by doctors following her breakdown.

  My mind refused to settle on one detail. There were way too many unanswered questions. I noticed George no longer sat beside me. Once again, I was completely alone in the attic. A part of me wondered what the connection was between Catherine’s death, William’s disappearance and Margaret’s breakdown.

  I attacked the papers in the trunk with determination but after another hour of scouring every piece, I found nothing. Finally, I felt sleep trying to pull me down and I decided to give up for the night. Tomorrow, I’d have a fresh eye and see if I missed something. Also, there were the other trunks to go through. One of them might have more papers, and answers. I loved puzzles and mysteries and this was turning into just that.

  As I lay in bed thinking back to what I learned, I couldn’t help but think the papers were only the beginning. Maybe I’d spent too much time believing in ghosts and spirits, or maybe I’d inherited Mama’s curiosity, but something told me I was meant to discover those documents. I wanted to learn more about why Catherine agreed to marry an obsessive sounding Yankee and how exactly she’d died.

  The minute I thought her name, a pressure pushed down on my chest. There wasn’t anything but darkness. No light, not even the window or my computer screen was visible in the room. This was darkness on a whole other level and it terrified me. The sickening scent of old water from earlier pushed in from all sides. It made me realize I knew this darkness.

  The weight on my chest got heavier. Then, to my horror, cold fingers slowly wrapped themselves around my neck. I wasn’t sure at first if the cold stole my breath or the invisible fingers were choking it out of me. I panicked. No
matter how hard I tried, my arms and body resisted, refusing to do anything. I was frozen and not just because I couldn’t move. A chill, colder than anything I’d ever felt, shrouded me in its embrace. White puffs of my gasping, waning breath stood out in stark contrast next to the blackness.

  My mind wanted desperately to fight, but all I managed to do was open and close my mouth like a dying fish, struggling to get air. Even the silence pressed me down. My effort to draw breath made no sound at all. I thought my imagination had taken over because for a second I heard a raspy female laughing, but it flitted in and out of my consciousness too quick to make sense of.

  I sensed my body shutting down. I had no idea how much time passed. Inside I screamed, wanting to live, but all I was aware of were those icy hands on my neck and everything fading. I knew the precise moment I stopped fighting because a strange peace came over me, and I almost welcomed the spots in front of my eyes. It meant I wouldn’t have to stare into that horrible darkness any more.

  Before I gave myself over to death, a bright white light flashed out. It lit up the entire attic and for a brief second, I saw what held me down. There weren’t many details that I caught in the quick flash, but I saw eyes and a mouth both darker than the mass itself, endless voids into another place. The light expanded and blinded me, forcing me to close my eyes. After another second, it was over.

  I opened my eyes and took a heaving breath. I still felt the after effects of the fingers on my neck but at least I could breathe again. The deep, ragged gulps of air calmed me and my heartbeat slowly returned to normal.

  The light faded and dimmed. Whatever came into the attic and saved me was already leaving.

  “Wait,” I managed to say, the word sounding like a weak gasp. “Who are you?”

  Nothing answered me. The normal nighttime darkness returned to the room and I sat there, savoring the ability to breathe and listening to the sounds of the house. The thing that attacked me must have left or at least it had been beaten back by the light. I had no idea what just happened. My mind wasn’t able to grasp the fact that I’d almost died.

  The reality hit me almost as hard as the presence had. Sobs ripped through me and I curled up in a ball on the bed. All the suspicions I had recently pondered about something dark in the house became blindingly real.

  Fear forced me up off the bed and around the attic in a panic, turning on every single light. I went back to bed and threw the covers over my head, like a terrified child. For hours I fought exhaustion, I didn’t want to be asleep and defenseless. The last thing I remembered before my eyes closing was whispering ‘thank you’ into the brightly lit room.

  Chapter Three

  I tried to avoid asking Marietta for anything. More often than not she shot me down before I even started. But I needed to get to the Georgia Historical Society to do some research. I had a hunch that if I found out more about Catherine and William, I’d discover who or what I might be dealing with. There was no arguing they were connected. I just needed to find out how.

  Whatever happened yesterday scared the crap out of me and I wanted answers.

  At eight o’clock, I went down to the kitchen and found her sitting at the breakfast bar, sipping coffee and reading the paper. The dark shadow swirled, expanding the farther I walked into the room. Even the faint smell of the river, which I was getting used to, reached out to greet me. I remembered the shadow looming above me, holding me down and I fought my instinct to turn and run. Something told me that’s what it expected but I wouldn’t give it the satisfaction.

  “Good morning, Marietta. Can I get you anything?” As much as it made me sick to even pretend to be nice, I wanted to keep her in a good mood. It didn’t help matters that my whole body tensed and I held a fight or flight stance.

  “You don’t have to play the good girl, Quinn. If you want something, just ask.”

  This took me by surprise so I blurted out some of the truth. “I wanted to spend some time at the library today. If it’s okay with you, of course.”

  Suddenly, the shadow grew behind her and the air in the room changed. It became cold and charged, how it is during a thunderstorm. I froze, fully expecting a repeat of the attack. Before I knew it, all the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen slammed open and shut, making me jump and squeal. Marietta sat there passively as if nothing happened.

  I barely had a chance to consider running as half a second later the air changed back to normal and quiet settled over the room, probably because Suzanna and Annabelle chose that moment to appear.

  “Don’t you have something to do besides bother us?” Anna asked as she sauntered past. She left the smell of strawberries in her wake and I found it funny considering it was such a pleasant smell coming from someone so unpleasant.

  “I was asking Marietta a question,” I replied softly. Today wasn’t the day I wanted to attract their attention, not with the dark presence so close.

  “Then get out of here. I don’t want to ruin my breakfast,” Suzanna said as she walked by and rammed her shoulder into mine.

  “Omigosh, I forgot, did you hear about the movie they’re filming here this summer?” Anna blurted out as she grabbed a banana out of the fruit bowl.

  Suzie shook her head while Marietta kept her eyes focused on me.

  Anna continued, “They’re filming a movie right here in Savannah! A vampire movie, you know based on all those books? And guess who’s going to be Brandon, the dark moody, vamp? Jason Preston.”

  This time Suzie squealed and grabbed her twin. I rolled my eyes at them as they started jumping up and down.

  Everyone knew who Jason Preston was and even I allowed myself a half second to go all dreamy. Tall, dark, and mysterious, he played the black sheep in the long running family drama, Home. He had this cocky smile that made every girl want to find out what he was thinking.

  I shrugged away the frivolous thought. What the heck did it matter?

  “You may go to the library,” Marietta announced loudly, “just keep your phone on in case I need you. The girls and I are having a mother-daughter day with shopping and lunch and a movie. Sometimes you need to be with family.” Another dig aimed at me. “Also, we’ll have lasagna for dinner tonight so make sure you’re back early enough to make it.”

  Not wanting her to take it back, I scurried out the door as the girls protested against letting me have any free time. More and more Marietta had been forgetting to have me do my normal cleaning and housework. Granted she, or the thing controlling her, possibly wanted to kill me, so who cared about chores?

  Finally, outside in the bright morning air, I was able to take a deep breath.

  Whenever something paranormal happened in the house, Marietta’s first reaction was to scream and cower in another room. She had sat there while the cabinets opened and closed without batting an eye. It confirmed she must not be aware of what was happening to her.

  I texted Abby and told her to meet me at the Historical Society, that I had some interesting things to tell her.

  I truly believed something I found last night triggered the violent response from the shadow. I needed to figure out what and why. The vaguest hint it had something to do with Catherine tickled the edge of my mind. She died and her husband of barely a year disappeared without warning. Something didn’t add up. Plus, there was the female voice I thought heard.

  The Georgia Historical Society was located in the WB Hodgson Hall on Whitaker Street and housed over four million manuscripts, 100,000 photos and thousands of portraits and artifacts from the very beginning of Georgia’s history. The light brown building didn’t look like much from the front but the inside it was a site to behold. The high vaulted ceilings made the reading room feel even bigger than it already was. I always loved the smell of history in the air, the musty pages of books guarding their secrets.

  I walked up to the information desk and asked for records on Catherine Roberts or William Jennings from the 1870’s to 1890’s.

  Abby arrived as I began sorting t
hrough the stacks of material a library aide had set down.

  “I’m here, what are we looking for?”

  I quickly took her through the events since leaving her yesterday, trying not to make a big deal over the attack. Abby saw right through my vagueness.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. You have to get out of that house, Quinn. What’s it gonna take for you to get that?”

  “It’s my home, Abby. I don’t know how else to explain it. I need to be there for something. I only have to make it a couple more months. You understand more than anyone what the house means to me.”

  She sighed heavily and leaned closer. “I do but I’m worried about you. I think you’re expecting magical things to happen when you turn eighteen. We’ve both learned life doesn’t turn out that way.”

  “I’ve spent the last five years of my life scared to stand up for myself. If I don’t learn to do it now and find out what exactly is going on, I’ll never escape it.”

  “That completely makes sense Q, but what you’re forgetting is that something might be trying to kill you. You get that, right?”

  Instead of answering her, I concentrated on the reading in front of me. She got the message and started in on what appeared to be a stack of ledgers.

  We sat in silence for a long time and then Abby straightened in her chair, waving to get my attention.

  “Quinn, I found something about Catherine Roberts. It’s the meeting notes for a group of women who called themselves Saviors of Savannah. They were dedicated to getting the city back on its feet after the War. Anyway, they made mention of Catherine’s body never being found and the officials finally issuing a death certificate. She had been a member up until she married then ‘dropped out of sight’, abandoning them for a ‘life of pampered Northern privilege’.”