“I don’t know why I wanted to open this,” Garrett said excitedly. “I wasn’t even going to come in this room tonight. But I just had this crazy feeling…” He picked up a leather-bound book from the floor and put it in Micah’s hands.
The cover was old, the leather peeling away from the cloth inside. There was nothing but a date on the front, gold-embossed—1868. Micah sat in one of the chairs, ignoring the cloud of dust that drifted up around her.
The first page was faded, the ink yellowed with time. A lilting script declared “General Benjamin W. Jones and Mrs. Adele Langley Jones, with their daughter Beverly, 1868.” Turning the page, Micah landed on an old black-and-white photograph.
A dour, older man with dazzling white hair stood military-straight over a seated woman with the kind of breathtaking beauty that belonged in a magazine. On her knee sat a smiling young girl with a round face and laughing eyes.
Micah turned a quizzical look to her husband. “A photo album.”
“Better,” he said, turning the page. He tapped an image of Bowridge, the edges of the photo burnt and blackened. Beneath it, the same flowery script declared “Bowridge upon purchase, January 10th, 1868.”
Micah turned another page and found an image of the daughter on the covered porch, her chubby legs on tip-toe as she peered out the window. “She’s young here. What do you think? Five?”
Garrett nodded. “Yeah, that was my guess.”
“They look so happy. Well”—Micah laughed—“Mrs. Jones and Beverly do. The general is… um… sour.”
Garrett laughed.
Micah flipped through half the book, and then the pictures just ended at a final photo of Beverly sitting on the wicker chair on the covered porch.
“They stop.”
“And look…” Garrett tugged a stack of papers from inside the box, handing them over.
It was a certificate of sale for November 1868. “They only lived here for ten months?”
“Looks that way. I tried to find out what happened. If they moved away. But there’s nothing. The house traded into the Ness family.”
“My family,” Micah mused. She traced the profile of the little girl in her last picture at Bowridge. “I wonder what her story is.”
Garrett took the album from her, setting it gently on top of the box before he offered her his hands. “Come on. I’ll tuck you in with a fresh bag of ice.”
* * *
She sat, silent in her worries. She had dreaded leaving her father alone; he had been married to her mother for so long that he could hardly care for himself. But she missed her daughter.
The carriage trundled through the city, the familiar sights easing her nerves. She tugged at her high-necked dress; the heat was nearly unendurable. If it weren’t for Benjamin’s assignment to Savannah, they never would have left the more agreeable climate in the north.
A smile broke out over her face as she drew near to Bowridge. Home. She couldn’t wait to see her family, to feel the embrace of her husband and the tiny hands of her daughter.
To forget the pain of her mother’s passing.
* * *
Micah’s eyes opened to the dark night and a steady patter of rain on the window. She lay still on her back, Garrett’s hand resting on her stomach as he slept on.
The dream had seemed so vivid, so real. She’d been in the carriage. She felt the cobblestones beneath the wheels, jolting and uncomfortable. She had heard the clip-clop of hooves, the calls of passers-by outside the open window. The smell of southern magnolia.
Was she channeling Adele Jones? The simple but telling images in the Jones’ family album had haunted Micah all evening, preoccupying her mind through a spaghetti dinner prepared by a guilty Garrett, and through a late-night movie with Elliott. Maybe her mind had latched onto Adele—a young woman with a young child.
It had just felt so damn real.
With a sigh, Micah turned over and closed her eyes to go back to sleep, but she snapped them open a moment later when Sticks’s growl ripped through the room.
Micah sat up, rubbing her eyes as she searched for his shadow on the floor. She was surprised to find his silhouette standing at the door to the covered patio—a door that was standing wide open, though it had been closed and locked at bedtime.
She swiveled on her bottom and got out of bed, drawn by Sticks’s low growl like a moth to its demise. She wiped her sweaty palms on her nightgown.
Sticks’s hackles were raised, his four legs planted firmly on the hardwood floor and his nose pointed out through the doorway.
Micah didn’t want to look. She didn’t want to see a ghostly Adele Langley Jones or General Benjamin on the porch, returned to Bowridge in death. But she was drawn to the porch, unable to stop her forward momentum.
She gasped as the porch came into view. A small blonde figure sat primly in the chair, her back to the doorway.
Micah crossed the threshold. “Elliott?” she asked in a low voice, slowly walking up to the chair.
But the face that turned to look at her wasn’t her daughter’s. A face more than a century old peered up at Micah—the face of Beverly Jones.
“May I go play, Mother?” The voice echoed as if it were two different voices combined.
Heart racing, Micah stepped backwards, riveted by the face of a long dead child. Beverly lifted a hand to point at the window. No, beyond the window. Micah followed her fingertip.
In the park across the street, lit by flickering torches she’d never seen before, a group of children played.
Micah turned back to Beverly to find the girl watching her. The child’s face flickered—a brief image of Elliott shone through, and Micah screamed.
All at once, Beverly faded, leaving a confused Elliott sitting in the chair in her supernatural wake. Elliott reached for Micah. “Momma? Was I sleepwalking?”
Micah fainted.
* * *
She mounted the steps at Bowridge, her heart singing at the thought of Beverly waiting for her on the other side of the door. Her daughter was her everything; the two weeks Adele had spent away at her parents’ home had felt like a lifetime.
Adele’s key clicked in the lock, and she opened the door. “Beverly? Mother’s home.” She stepped inside, listening for the shuffling run of her five-year-old daughter as she shut and locked the door.
The house was entirely too hot. Adele yearned for the colder north as she opened the front window in the living room in an attempt to circulate some air.
Benjamin appeared in the archway, a smile flitting across his face beneath his bushy white beard. Adele offered him a chaste kiss. “My husband,” she greeted him. “Where is Beverly?”
Her husband’s face darkened. “Beverly sneaked from the house again to play with the…riffraff next door. I punished her by making her sit on the porch to watch them play.”
“Oh, Benjamin.” Adele sighed. “You really must learn to rein in your temper. She is only a child.”
“She must learn early to obey me,” he boomed. “Lest she not obey her future husband.”
Adele bit her tongue. Arguing would do no good. Her husband was arrogant. He always would be.
“Instruct Cook to start dinner,” Adele told him. “Beverly and I will meet you in the dining room shortly.”
Adele walked into her bedroom, tugging her traveling gloves from her hands. “Beverly? Dearest one, I am home.”
She paused as she tucked her gloves into the drawer of her bureau. No reply was forthcoming from the porch. “Beverly?” she called, heading for the door.
Her daughter’s head rested on the back of her favorite wicker chair. Adele smiled. The chit had fallen asleep! She clicked over the concrete floor and gazed down at her daughter lovingly.
The breath caught in Adele’s throat. Beverly’s eyes were wide open, glassy and unseeing.
* * *
Micah was unsure when dreams became reality. It was dark outside the bedroom window. Garrett wasn’t in bed beside her. The bathroom spi
lled warm yellow light into the room.
Adele felt as if she were imprinted on Micah’s senses. Panic gripped her at the memory of Beverly’s dead eyes. Beverly? Or Elliott?
The covered porch was hot, still filled with the heat of the day. Tears pricked Micah’s eyes as she saw the small blonde figure upon the wicker chair.
It was Elliott. Her body lay limp exactly as Beverly Jones had died, and her pale blue eyes stared out over the park forever.
* * *
Micah’s limbs were numb. She felt her way down the staircase one foot at a time. She trailed her fingertips along the wall but didn’t feel it.
Garrett was walking past the steps on his way to the basement stairs when he noticed her ghosting down. “Micah? Honey, what are you doing out of bed?” He came to meet her, gently taking her hands. “You had a nasty fall on the porch. You scared Elliott half to death. You should be resting.”
Micah resisted as he attempted to steer her back up the stairs. She jerked from his grasp and backed away down the hallway. “Beverly is dead.”
Garrett stiffened. He walked towards her, a tight, controlled gait. “That can’t be. I must check with Aida about dinner.” He brushed past her.
“How long was she on the porch, Benjamin?” Micah shrieked, advancing on her husband.
Garrett spun around, his back to the basement staircase as his eyes hardened. “No daughter of mine will consort with lower classes.”
“She shall never consort with anyone ever again. You have murdered our daughter with your hubris.” Micah ended the statement on a primal yell, one borne of anger, hate, and grief. She rushed at Garrett, both hands connecting with his solid chest.
He wheeled backwards, his eyes registering his imminent accident, and then he tumbled down the steps.
The ensuing silence rang in Micah’s ears. She waited a moment before she stepped forward and gazed down. Garrett…no, Benjamin… Her husband lay prone on the black-and-white floor, blood oozing from beneath his head. His eyes were closed, his limbs splayed.
The numbness returned. First her mother—wait, I just spoke to Jean earlier today about her visit, she isn’t dead…—then her daughter…and now, she’d killed her husband.
Micah returned to the third floor and the safe haven of her marital bedroom. She wanted to see her daughter one last time, but the very idea of going back out to the porch and seeing Elliott’s beautiful eyes… A sob wrenched her body.
She slid the sash up on the front window. The Georgia night was cool—A cool night wouldn’t have killed my daughter. Only a hot night. Hot.—and breezy. Tears slid down her cheeks as Micah leaned out over the street.
A flash—this is the window where the water-stained face is—and Micah put one leg out the window.
Micah, wake up.
OhmyGod, Micah NO!
Her torso was through now. Micah struggled to the surface, struggled against the influence of Adele, but it was a losing battle. Adele’s anguish was too strong.
If I cannot have my child…you shall not have yours either.
Micah tried to hold on, but her fingers let go, and she began to fall.
She didn’t even scream.
* * *
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Coleman!” Janet Kramer held out a hand, first to the prim and proper Missus, and then to the stout but sweetly smiling Mister. She knelt before the small girl clinging to her mother’s hand. “And you must be Kate! It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Kate smiled shyly. “Hi.”
Janet stood, tucking her clipboard against her elbow as she grinned at the couple. “You will simply love this house, Mrs. Coleman. It is exactly what you were hoping for when we began searching for your perfect southern mansion.”
Mrs. Coleman stared up at the hulking monstrosity. Even beneath the September sun, it seemed dark and menacing. “I don’t know, Janet. Isn’t it…a little run down?”
“Nonsense,” Janet replied. “The former family did quite a bit of clean-up on it, so it’s rather lovely inside. If you’ll follow me.” She mounted the crumbling front steps. “The outside does need a little work, of course. You can see how the concrete façade has a bit of weather damage.”
“An easy fix,” Mr. Coleman said with a succinct nod.
Inside, Janet showed them through the living room and dining rooms, pointing out the staircase to the basement before she led them upstairs.
“This bedroom here at the end of the hall makes a lovely little girl’s room, what with the pink-and-white striped wallpaper. I envision ruffles and teddy bears every time I see it.” Janet tittered.
“It is lovely,” Mrs. Coleman agreed. “What do you think, Kate?”
But the little girl was nowhere to be found.
“Kate?” Mrs. Coleman’s heart skipped a beat. The house was so large and unfamiliar…
They found six-year-old Kate standing on the covered porch.
“What are you doing, dear?” Mrs. Coleman asked, crossing the porch to gaze out over the peaceful street. Across the way, a group of kids clambered about the playground.
“Can you see them?” Kate asked.
Her mother smiled indulgently. “Yes, of course.”
Kate’s pretty face turned up to her beseechingly. “May I go play?”
#
Heather Marie Adkins is psychotically obsessed with abandoned places and would live in one, preferably with ghosts.
Find more information on Heather and her books at heathermarieadkins.com, or follow her on Facebook and Twitter
Blehdward, the Vampire Who Couldn’t Sparkle
P.J. Jones
Blehdward wiped blood from his fanged mouth while looking down at the wide, vacant eyes of his latest victim. Her body lay on top of a heap of twisted metal that was once a walker.
Blehdward nearly gagged at the aftertaste in his mouth. Her blood tasted like prunes.
He bent down and pulled a tennis ball off of a broken walker leg and tossed it absently against a wall. But he’d forgotten about his super-human vampire strength. The ball bounced back and knocked his left ear clean off his head. The little flap of skin flew in an arc across the room before landing in a bed pan with a splash.
Gross. Blehdward’s life sucked.
He sulked over to the mortal woman’s bed and peered over the railing. The other stuff floating in the pan beside his ear was too horrifying to mention. He briefly wondered if it was worth the trouble of fishing out his ear and reattaching it to his head.
The problem was, vampires lived for an eternity. In the span of forever, other vampires would one day notice the missing ear, just like they noticed all of Blehdward’s other physical flaws.
He searched the room for something to fish his ear out of the bedpan. All he could come up with were a pair of panties the size of Texas, a bag of stale prunes, and an empty denture crème jar.
Blehdward turned his head and pinched his nose while he used the jar to fish out his ear. Once the deed was done, he sealed the jar and wiped it clean with the granny panties. Then, he scrubbed his hands for about fifteen minutes. He would have to reattach his ear later, after he managed to control the urge to vomit old lady blood all over the speckled tile floor.
He was starting to wonder if raiding retirement homes was actually worth it. Sure, they were easy targets, but his feasts never ended without incident. At least this one hadn’t crapped her adult diapers.
Blehdward missed his old life, when other vampires thought he was cool and invited him on their raids. But those vampires didn’t think he was cool anymore.
Not since the sun incident.
Now he was relegated to feeding off the dregs of mortal society because the bedrooms of spoiled high school chicks were strictly forbidden to vampires who couldn’t sparkle.
* * *
Blehdward scanned the darkened bar. A few werewolves were in the corner playing pool. One was humping a bar stool. A zombie had been trying to figure out how to push open the bathroom door for at least
fifteen minutes. He’d finally given up and wet his pants. How embarrassing. Though Blehdward couldn’t sparkle, he was still relieved he wasn’t at the bottom of the immortal food chain. That spot was reserved for zombies who lacked the fine motor skills needed to turn a door handle, and who thought nothing about wetting their pants in public.
Blehdward’s shoulders fell as he heaved a sigh. Not much happening at Immortals on a Wednesday night. All the cool vamps were probably feasting on high school chicks by now. He sighed before taking a sip of his drink, then he wiped blood off his lips with the back of his sleeve.
The door to Immortals flew open, but oddly, Blehdward didn’t see anyone come inside. He blinked hard, thinking perhaps he’d seen a shadow glide past him. He shivered as a chill snaked up his spine, which was odd, because as a cold-blooded vampire, he wasn’t supposed to feel such sensations.
He swiveled in his bar stool and stole a glance at the pale-faced stranger who was sitting beside him. His hooded, sunken orbs were framed by a gaunt face with jarring angles. Not a strand of his slicked-back dark hair was out of place. A violent, jagged scar stretched from the tip of his left brow to his chin. The rest of his body was concealed in a long, black cloak.
Another shiver racked Blehdward’s body. This guy looked like he’d just done time in vampire prison.
“O Negative,” the stranger hissed to the bartender. The man angled his head, and his cold, vacant gaze bore into Blehdward.
Blehdward felt compelled to look away. He swallowed hard. Whoever this vampire was, he was badass. He must have sparkled like a freaking treasure trove of diamonds when he stood in the sun.
“Sparkling is for pussies,” the vampire growled as he took the drink from the bartender.
Another icy tendril of fear snaked up Blehdward’s spine. He hesitantly turned back to the vampire. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” The vampire’s eyes were red, and not just the color of blood, but demonic, glowing red.
Blehdward nearly wet his pants, which would have been beyond embarrassing. Pants pissing was for zombies. “How did you hear my thoughts?”
The vampire’s lip turned up in snarl, revealing the pointiest incisors Blehdward had ever seen.
“I hear everything,” the vampire said before leaning closer to Blehdward and inhaling. “Your smell, it reminds me of prunes.”
“Really? That’s odd.” Blehdward’s hand shook as he reached for his glass and downed the contents in one swallow.