The Awakening

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“But we have to talk about that part,” Mama insisted. “That’s why we’re here. When midnight struck and you didn’t come home or even call, Mother was beside herself with worry. It wasn’t like you to miss curfew. And Father—” Mama shuddered. “I’d never seen him so angry. He paced the floor all night and when you finally came home at sunrise, you had that terrible row.”

“You don’t need to remind me.” My aunt’s voice sounded resigned as she lifted a hand to her cheek. “I’ll remember every word he said to me until my dying day.”

“Nothing was ever the same,” Mama said sadly. “We were a happy family until that night. At least it was easy to pretend that we were. Then Father sent you away and I wanted desperately to come with you. The tension in the house had become so oppressive by that time. But I suppose I had it easy considering what you had to put up with Aunt Rue. She was such a spiteful person. So pious and judgmental. I don’t know how you stood it.”

“I stood it because I had to. It was my penitence, Father said.”

“It was cruel of him, what he made you do.”

“And I’ve never forgiven him,” my aunt said. “But what good does it do to dredge all that up now? Haven’t we both learned that some secrets are best left buried?”

“Have you been able to bury it, though?”

“Yes, until I hear that song. You know the one I mean. And then everything comes back as though it were yesterday. All that pain and suffering. The guilt and the loneliness. Oh, Etta, the loneliness...”

The faint tinkle of a wind chime came to me as I knelt there clinging to the fence. The melody drifted through my senses, tugging at more memories until I had the strongest sense of déjà vu. I knew that I had overheard this very conversation just as I knew the secret my mother and aunt spoke of wasn’t meant for my ears. I would be in trouble if they caught me eavesdropping and I couldn’t abide Mama’s disapproval. She and Papa were everything to me, so I tried very hard to never, ever displease them. I stood to alert her of my nearness, but when I called out to her, she dissolved into the mist without even acknowledging my presence.

“Where did she go?” I cried. “I need her to see me.”

My aunt stared pensively into the open grave. “Leave it alone, chile. You can’t change the past. What’s done is done. You of all people should know that no good ever comes from all that digging.”

And then my aunt vanished, too, leaving me with a terrible foreboding. What’s done is done.

I knew that I was still dreaming, but the realization gave me no comfort because I couldn’t rouse myself. Not yet. The dreams and the ghostly visits were somehow connected and everything had meaning. The mist, the open grave, my mother and aunt’s conversation. Even the beady eyes of the corpse bird that watched me from atop a headstone. If the crow wasn’t a clue, then it was surely a sign or an omen. It means someone else is likely to pass.

I pulled myself up to my full height, shaking off those lonely bondages of my childhood so that I could continue the journey as an adult. As I moved back into the cemetery, I realized the scene had shifted and now I found myself behind the crumbling walls of Oak Grove Cemetery, that darkest of all burial places, where even the dead didn’t wish to linger.

The mist thickened and the air grew colder. An unnatural wind tore at my hair and the hem of my nightgown. I covered my nose and mouth as the smell of fresh death rose up from a sea of open graves.

Straight ahead, the Gothic spires of the Bedford Mausoleum peeked up over the treetops. The distant tinkle of a wind chime lured me into the woods and when I emerged into a clearing, I found myself at the bottom of a long staircase. At the very top, light shone through an open doorway where shadows danced upon the walls.

I didn’t want to go up there. I didn’t want to see inside the mausoleum. But the melody of the wind chime wrapped around my senses, drawing me upward as if a string around my wrist had been tugged.

The air grew steadily colder as I climbed. The night became crowded with ghosts. The diaphanous beings drifted up behind me on the steps, brushing their frigid fingers through my hair, pressing icy lips to my ears as they whispered about unspeakable secrets.

I could feel my energy wane as their appetites threatened to consume me. But I kept climbing, on and on until I reached the summit. A silhouette appeared in the doorway blocking my way into the mausoleum. It was Devlin, barefoot and shirtless, his hair unkempt, his eyes inflamed with an emotion I didn’t want to name.

I put out a hand, thinking he would dissolve the way Mama and Aunt Lynrose had, but instead I felt the warm ripple of muscle. I closed my eyes on a shiver.

He caught my wrist and I thought he meant to pull me against him. I wouldn’t have resisted no matter his betrothal. But he held me away, the intensity of his stare deepening my unease until I suddenly found myself wanting to break free of him.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said harshly, holding me fast. “You don’t belong.”

“Where are we?” I tried to look around him into the mausoleum but he stepped in front of me, shielding my view with his body. I could hear all manner of sounds inside, inhuman screams and groans that chilled me to the bone. “What is this place?”

“Go,” he said. “Before they find you.”

“Who?”

“You can’t be seen here. This is a place for the dead.”

“Then why are you here?”

He said nothing to that, merely stared at me longingly before he turned in resignation to go back inside. I stepped across the threshold into that cold, dark space filled with shadows and torchlight and noises that lifted the hair at my nape. But Devlin was nowhere to be seen.

I wasn’t alone, however. Claire Bellefontaine crouched on the stone floor before a pool of blood. Light shimmered in her silvery gold hair and something dark and feral glinted in her blue eyes.

She lifted a finger to her ruby lips. “Shush. Lest she awaken.”

Then she pointed to the doorway and I whirled. The ghost child hovered at the top of the stairs. She wore the same clothes as before, but now I could see a flash of silver in her fist.

Familiarity tugged at me again, but the memory flitted away as her face morphed into a corpse bird. I could see the iridescent sheen of her feathery hair and the dead gleam of those beady eyes in the torchlight. Her head hung at a sickening angle, but when I would have moved to help her, she emitted a high-pitched scream that knocked me back against the wall.

I crumpled to the floor, hands to my ears as I cried in horror, “Please stop. You’re hurting me.”

“Mercy,” she said before she tumbled backward down the stairs.

I rose and rushed to the doorway. She was already gone, but she’d left something behind on the top step. A charm bracelet gleamed in the torchlight, but when I bent to pick it up, my fingers found nothing but mist.

I awakened with my fingers tangled around the ribbon at my throat. The weight and purpose of Rose’s key should have reassured me, but my heart pounded so hard, I had to sit up in bed to catch my breath. I searched the shadows, all the darkened corners. Nothing was amiss. Angus snoozed on in a puddle of moonlight, oblivious to anything but his own dreams.

Shoving back the covers, I rose and padded into the hallway to check the alarm system. The activated light glowed reassuringly, but I still found myself glancing over my shoulder as I walked to the kitchen for a drink of water. Then I took a quick look around the house before returning to the front window to glance out at the street.

It was well after midnight and traffic had long since died away. The night was quiet and peaceful, lit by a crescent moon and the streetlights along Rutledge. I saw nothing untoward. Even the shadows were static. There was nothing inside or outside that should have kept my heart racing, and yet my uneasiness mounted the longer I stood at that window.

My scalp prickled a warning as I suddenly vectored in on the cause of my disquiet. Halfway down the block a sleek black sedan with darkly tinted windows was parked at the curb. The headlights were off, but I could see the silhouette of the driver behind the wheel. As if prompted by the fierceness of my concentration, he opened the door, briefly illuminating the interior of the car. He appeared to be alone. He got out and came around to recline against the front fender.

I could see him clearly underneath the streetlight. Even from this distance, there was no mistaking his identity. I’d seen him on my front porch only hours ago.

And there was no mistaking his intent. He had been sent to watch my house.

Ten (#ub0e52320-9b52-50ae-8f54-f926e647d306)

I managed a few more hours of sleep and arose early in a resolved if not entirely upbeat mood. A cool gray light seeped into the bedroom, but the warm edge of sunrise glowed just above the horizon. While I dressed, Angus roused and padded off down the hallway to wait patiently at the back door. After a quick look out the front window to make sure the black car had moved on, I turned off the security system and followed him outside.

Plopping down on the steps to tie my walking shoes, I let my thoughts amble while he went about his morning routine. Naturally, my mind went back to the dream and to Mama and Aunt Lynrose sitting beside that open grave in their rockers. Time and my subconscious may have embellished the dialogue, but I had no doubt I’d overheard a similar conversation sometime in the distant past. The memory had been pushed to the back of my mind until recent events had called it forth. But why? I still couldn’t imagine how my mother and aunt were connected to Woodbine Cemetery any more than I understood Devlin’s warning that I didn’t belong in the dead world. And he did?

The way he had turned away in resignation to walk back into the mausoleum had chilled me most of all, but maybe I was making too much of that scene. Not every element in a dream had to have meaning. Maybe some of the images were nothing more than fragmented memories and disjointed worries knitted together into something indecipherable.

I called Angus back inside and poured nuggets in his bowl. I topped off his water before heading out on my morning walk. The air was cool, but I set a brisk pace and soon warmed up from the exertion. Traffic was still sparse and I met only a handful of early-bird pedestrians. As I strode along the cracked sidewalks, I kept a vigilant eye, but if the black car tailed me, the driver was skilled enough to avoid detection.

Turning left on Broad Street, I sailed past banks and law offices housed in centuries-old buildings as I headed toward the water. The pastel houses along Rainbow Row glowed softly in the morning light. I crossed the street to the Battery, telling myself to keep moving, to avert my eyes when I passed the Devlin mansion, but that was asking too much. I slowed my steps as my gaze darted across East Bay. The sun was just rising over the harbor and the light reflecting off the windows blinded me.

Shielding my eyes, I scanned the elegant facade, searching the balcony where I had seen Devlin. He wasn’t outside today. No one was about. The family slept on while I stood watching their house.

Abruptly, I turned and made my way to the bottom of the peninsula, crossing the street once again to White Point Garden. No one was about in the park, either, and I was glad to have the space to myself. I followed a trail past the gazebo and canons to a remote spot where I often came to think.

The camellia blossoms hung heavy with dew, and the smell of brine drifted on the sea breeze, which ruffled my hair. It was one of those clean, clear mornings when Charleston shimmered like a diamond. I headed for my usual bench only to find it occupied. I started to move on, then stopped dead as a quiver went through me.

The man’s head was turned so that I could only see his profile, but I recognized the jawline, the rigid posture, the gleaming silver hair—not a strand out of place. Even at so early an hour, Jonathan Devlin was formally turned out in a three-piece suit and wingtips. A gold watch fob hung from his vest and a precisely folded pocket square adorned his coat. He could have been on his way to a funeral, so somber his attire.

I hadn’t made a sound. I was certain of that. But before I could make my escape, he turned and pinned me with a gaze every bit as dark and intense as his grandson’s. I was awestruck by that glare. It was as if his eyes had the power to hold me in suspended animation.

In that frozen moment, I suddenly became acutely aware of my own apparel—walking shoes, leggings and a faded hoodie. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but the wind and the exertion of my walk had loosened damp tendrils. I wore no makeup or perfume and my nails were clipped short so that I could more easily scrub away the graveyard dirt. A less appealing presentation I could hardly imagine, but why should I be so concerned about my appearance? Jonathan Devlin was nothing to me. I had no need to impress.

Even so, I couldn’t dispel the echo of my aunt Lynrose’s censure. You must always wear gloves when you work, Amelia. On that there can be no compromise. A woman’s hands never lie.

Neither of us spoke for the longest time, which only prolonged the awkward encounter. Finally, I cleared my throat and shrugged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“It’s a public park. I don’t own this bench.” He had Devlin’s drawl, I noted. That cultured cadence rarely heard these days and only ever south of Broad Street.

I tried to suppress a shiver as I inched back a step. “That’s true, but you were here first. I can find another bench.”

“No, don’t run away, young lady.” His voice softened though not without effort, I wagered. He rose from the bench to face me.

He was tall, with the trim physique and resolute demeanor of a man who cut himself and those around him very little slack. I wondered what it must have been like for Devlin, a rebellious teen losing his parents so suddenly and forced to live with a man who wore a three-piece suit and polished wingtips for an early-morning stroll in the park. But then, I didn’t delude myself into thinking that this was a coincidental meeting. Not after the episode last night in front of my house.

“I may have beaten you to the punch this time,” Jonathan Devlin allowed. “But you come here often enough that I imagine you think of this as your place.” He gave a little wave as if to encompass our surroundings.

I stared back at him, trying not to show my nerves. “How would you know how often I come here? Or that I come here at all, for that matter.”

“There is very little I don’t know about you, Miss Gray.”

Apprehension quickened my breath. “That sounds ominous.”

“Yet you’re still here.” The light slanting down through the leaves caught him in such a way as to magnify the lines and creases in his face and the slight sag of his jowls. Despite his military posture and fitness, I detected a slight quake in his voice, a chink in his armor that he undoubtedly abhorred. A man such as he would cling to his vigor until his dying breath.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked, his dark gaze taking my measure.