Inheriting Evil

by K S Logan

  “Don’t worry,” Grace said as she passed. “I won’t bother you.” She remembered when she was a little girl, her father enjoying grouse shoots at this time of year.

  Grace found her rhythm, the pounding of her shoes on the road beating in sync with her breath. When she entered this point in her run, she felt she could go on forever. It was exhilarating. She crested a hill and took in the breathtaking scenery of Blackmore River. If she was lucky, she might come across a roe deer or a buck along the edge of the water.

  She found herself thinking again of her father, who loved to fly-fish here. He’d once told her of a mythical creature called a Kelpie that was said to haunt Scotland’s lochs and lonely rivers. A Kelpie, he explained, was a supernatural water-horse that would appear to its victims, mostly children, as a lost dark gray or white pony.

  “Once you’re on its back,” he regaled, “you can’t get off, you’re trapped...and then the Kelpie will drag you into the river and eat you!” She remembered him grabbing her then and the feel of his tickly beard as he pretended to gobble her up. She smiled and rounded a bend in the road that led away from the water toward a lush, green glen.

  At the top of another small hill, she saw a man sitting to the side of the road. He was rubbing his leg.

  “Everything okay?” she asked as she approached.

  “Bloody leg cramp,” he answered, wincing.

  Grace looked at his rock hard calf muscle, which was bulging angrily. Being a runner herself, she knew that pain all too well.

  “You have to get up and walk on it,” she advised.

  “Ach, I know, but it hurts.” He rolled the ‘r’ in hurts, and she immediately felt a fondness for his Scottish accent, so much like her father’s.

  These days, Grace sounded more English than Scottish, having spent so many years there, away from her roots. Morvin had also lost a lot of her broad Scottish accent, but only because she thought the English sounded posher. She had always refused to use any Scottish slang; she had no pride in her heritage.

  “Glaswegian?” Grace asked.

  “Aye. Is it that obvious? Gee us a hand, will ye’ lass?” he asked. He put one hand on a rustic, drystone fence for support, and Grace took the other.

  She helped the handsome Scot to his feet. He cringed and moaned as he tried to put weight on his leg.

  “My dad was from Pollock,” said Grace, as she bent down for a better look at his leg. “Wow, it’s incredibly stiff. I’ll try rubbing it a bit. Maybe I can soften it for you.”

  The man grinned mischievously down at her. “I highly doubt that.”

  Grace flushed a bright red, and she stood back up, averting his eyes—his gorgeous sky-blue eyes.

  “Excuse me. That was rude. I just could’na help myself.” He put out his hand. “I’m Cameron. Cameron Elliot.”

  Grace immediately recognized the name. “The author, Cameron Elliot?” She had read one of his novels, spy thrillers. Not her preferred genre, but she remembered enjoying it.

  “Yes, you’ve read me?” he asked.

  “I have. You’re quite good.” Grace smiled.

  “Gee, thanks,” he smiled back, and Grace melted a bit. “My leg feels a bit better. Care to jog wi’ me for a stretch? In case I need help again?” He moved some hair out of his eyes and flicked it back with a jerk of his head. A move she couldn’t help but think was damned sexy.

  They jogged slowly, side by side, him with a slight limp that soon disappeared. Their chatting continued as they passed waves of rugged green farmland and vast sheep farms, a common sight in this area of the Edinburgh countryside.

  Grace learned he was renting the old Gittens’ cottage beside her family’s estate, trying to finish his latest novel. She explained that she was visiting temporarily, dealing with family matters.

  “Sounds like grrr-eat fun,” he said. There was that sexy rolling ‘r’ again.

  “Oh yeah, it’s a regular laugh riot.” Grace saw that the road leading to her property was approaching on her right. She increased her speed and left his side, moving past him. Just as she was about to make her exit, she turned coolly and jogged backward.

  “Well, this is me,” she said. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime, and I can help you with another hard muscle.” She couldn’t believe how her comment had come out, how it must have sounded to him. She was so embarrassed she nearly tripped over her own feet but caught herself just in time. Without looking back at him, she waved and sprinted up the driveway.

  “Real smooth, Gracey,” she muttered to herself, feeling like an idiot. She did catch him grinning, though, before she darted away, and found that she couldn’t help but smile a little herself.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The groan and clang of the old pipes echoed through the house as Grace cranked on the hot water for her shower. The small bathroom on the second floor had the most updated fixtures; unfortunately, it was at the opposite end of the mansion.

  She went to the mirror as she waited for hot water to reach the pipes and frowned at her reflection. The giant bags under her eyes were a testament to her restless sleep. Steam finally began to fog the mirror, but just as she was ready to step under the hot spray, she heard the shrill of the telephone. She paused for a second or two, debated ignoring it, but what if it was about the will. Grace sighed, wrapped herself in a towel, and ran downstairs to the kitchen.

  “Hello?” said Grace, into the heavy handset of the yellow rotary phone, circa 1978.

  “Is this the Calhoun/Bircham residence?”

  “Yes, it is. Grace Calhoun speaking.”

  “This is Riggart County Hospital. May I speak with Margaret Calhoun, please?”

  “I’m sorry, she recently passed away.” Grace realized that was the first time she had said those words out loud. It was real. “I’m her daughter, maybe I can help?”

  The woman on the other side said with authority, “Well, the Calhoun’s are listed as the only next of kin, so yes, that will do. I’m sorry to inform you that Ms. Lena Bircham has been admitted to our facility and is currently under observation in the intensive care ward.” She had a very thick Scottish brogue.

  “Oh, no! Aunt Lena?” Lena Bircham was Grace’s mother’s younger sister. She hadn’t seen her since she left for university in England. They had been quite close once, long ago. A memory of the time her aunt took little Grace shopping at the large mall in Edinburgh flashed through her mind. Grace stood up a little straighter. “What happened?”

  “It seems she has possibly suffered a stroke or an aneurism. The doctor in charge is currently confirming the diagnosis.”

  Grace turned her head toward the front door as the doorbell chimed.

  “My goodness. Is she going to be okay? Can I see her?” Grace asked, trying to ignore the second ringing of the visitor at the door.

  “At present, it’s at the doctor’s discretion. She is somewhat agitated, though, which is quite common for stroke victims. So, if and when she’s cleared for visitation, you’ll have to keep it short and try your best not to distress the patient.”

  “I’ll be there within the hour.” She wrote down the ward number and hung up the phone, then tightened the knot in her towel and went to answer the door.

  “What now?” she muttered as she walked to the foyer. “Yes?” Grace asked, opening the door just enough for her head to poke out.

  “Grace Calhoun?” asked a very tall, well-dressed gentleman.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  He smirked and checked out Grace’s bare shoulder as he handed her an official-looking letter.

  “What’s this?” Grace asked.

  “My name is Piers Thornhill. I’ve been solicited to represent Ms. Morvin Knowles to contest the will of one Margaret Fleming Bircham Calhoun.” He didn’t look Grace in the eye even once as he spoke. His face was thin but handsome, and his brown, slick hair had a perfect wave at the front, giving him a suave, debonair quality.

  “What? There has to be some mistake
.” Grace exclaimed. “I told my sister I would ensure that we’d sort all this out fairly. I don’t even want the money. This is ridiculous.” She let the door open fully as she slammed the letter into her thigh.

  He put his back to her and began walking away, apparently done with the conversation.

  “Just a damned minute, sir!” Grace demanded to his back, forgetting that she was only wearing a towel.

  He waved a hand in the air without looking back. “It’s all in the letter, Miss Calhoun. I’ll be in touch.”

  “But—” Grace said, but he was already getting into his silver BMW. She raised her arms, exasperated, but exasperation turned to horror as she felt her towel slacken and fall to the pavement. Appalled, Grace retrieved it, dropping the letter in the process. A sudden gust of wind caught the damn thing and carried it down the steps. She went after it and nearly tripped over her towel, losing it once again. Panicked, Grace grabbed the towel and draped it around her loosely with her right arm. However, she was not able to cover herself entirely as her arm was too weak, and her hand not physically able to grasp fully. Meanwhile, the letter was still gaily flapping away from her, down the driveway, staying just out of her left hand’s reach.

  Mr. Thornhill seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the spectacle by the look on his grinning face as he drove past her. He exited the driveway as slowly as possible so as not to miss a second of the show.

  Finally, Grace caught up with the letter as the wind died, and it came to rest on the grass beside the drive. Keeping her head down, she put the letter snugly between her knees as she readjusted the slippery damned towel and secured it tightly once more. Grace ran to the steps, feeling the sting of a few sharp rocks on her bare feet. She couldn’t get back to the house fast enough. As she closed the door, she saw the bumper of his car turn the corner of the driveway. She leaned on the inside of the door and put a hand to her mouth.

  “Did that really just happen?” She was exhausted and extremely embarrassed. “Grace, you are one Class A klutz...oh my bloody God.”

  She shook her head and opened the letter as she walked back upstairs to the bathroom. The legal jargon was impossible to understand. Grace rubbed her forehead aggressively, feeling a massive headache coming on.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The noise and commotion in the intensive care unit blasted Grace as she entered the ward. The hectic activity of nurses and doctors, the phones ringing, the unsettling relentless call of various machines clamoring for attention—it was all an unpleasant assault on the ears.

  Grace made her way to the nurse’s station. She waited a few minutes for one of the nurses to acknowledge her presence. She wondered if they were too busy to notice or if they were ignoring her.

  Finally, Grace said, “Excuse me.” When no one looked up from their task, she knew it was the latter. Who could blame them? They looked short-staffed and overworked. “Sorry to bother you. Could you direct me to Lena Bircham’s room?”

  A weary face looked up at her and let out a long and audible sigh. “Just a minute.” She said a few monotone words to another nurse behind her and then joined Grace in front of the high circular desk. She was middle-aged and quite heavy and walked with a pronounced limp. Her whole body veered to one side with every labored step. She explained, without emotion, that Lena had been in and out of consciousness but was alert at the last vitals check.

  “She is not able to speak at present, which is common in stroke victims, but she is trying to form words, so we’re optimistic that speech may return.” The nurse lumbered on as she spoke, stopping every so often to check a chart, spout off an order, or pick up a stray object and replace it. Grace had to listen closely as the woman was speaking face forward, not really to Grace at all. “Keep in mind there may be some permanent brain damage and loss of use of some parts of her body. We’re not sure at this point the extent of the damage. Try to keep her calm, and please have a positive attitude when you see her.” She stopped abruptly at the entrance to Lena’s room, turned to Grace, and looked her directly in the eye. “Your visit will have to be short as we’re still running tests.”

  Grace assured the nurse that she understood and entered the room. The door closed behind her, causing a noticeable decibel difference that was immediate and very welcome.

  Aunt Lena had a private room that contained only a bed, one chair, and a metal nightstand. The pale blue walls added to the sterile coolness of the place.

  Aunt Lena was lying very still with her eyes closed, and for a second, Grace thought the worst. As she got closer, though, she could hear a faint gurgling and saw that Lena’s chest was falling and rising lightly. She had drool running down one lip, and her skin was pallid and waxen.

  Grace pulled up a chair and cringed when the metal legs screeched across the linoleum floor, which, in the tomb-like, empty room, echoed sharply.

  “Hi, Auntie Lena,” Grace whispered, as she sat down, keeping her voice soft.

  Lena’s eyelids flickered a few times then opened. Her red eyeballs turned in Grace’s direction slowly and then widened as in shock or surprise. Lena began grunting through throaty gasps for breath. She coughed as she tried to speak, her grunting getting louder, her expression anguished and upset.

  “Aunt Lena, calm down. You’re going to be okay. I’m here. Please...try to rest.” Grace was shocked at her aunt’s apparent confusion and anxiety as Lena continued to become more and more distressed. Lena reached an arm out to Grace, all the while moaning and seemingly trying to convey something. She grabbed Grace’s hand with surprising strength and looked pleadingly into Grace’s eyes.

  “Maaaaa, Maaaaarrrr,” Lena moaned.

  Grace assumed she was trying to say Margaret, her mother’s name. “Yes, Auntie, I know. I’m sorry about Mum. But she’s not suffering now. It’s okay.”

  “Puuu, puuugh,” she coughed and wheezed.

  “You must try and relax, Aunt Lena. Please. You’re scaring me.”

  Lena would not stop. She grabbed at Grace’s hand and arm, pulling her closer to Lena’s face and bulging eyes.

  “Puuuuuuuuu! Puuuuuuu!” She dug her nails into Grace’s skin, strong enough to draw blood.

  A different nurse came charging through the door holding a syringe. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”

  “But I think she’s trying to tell me something.”

  “It’s common for stroke victims to be disoriented, confused, and scared.” The burly nurse barged in between Grace and her aunt. “We’ll give her something to help her rest now, but you’ll have to go.” She pointed at the door.

  Grace got up slowly, not wanting to leave her aunt in such a state. Lena’s hoarse gurgling got louder as Grace turned toward the door, her hand grasping at the air as if trying to pull Grace back to her.

  “I’ve got to leave now, Auntie. I’m so sorry. I’ll come back soon. You need to rest to get better. You’ll be okay.” Grace began tearing up, distraught at the sight of her poor old aunt in such a horrific state. She left the room, still able to hear her aunt’s cries, and hurried out of the ward. She couldn’t get out of the hospital fast enough, on the absolute verge of breaking down.

  An elderly man at the entrance tried to stop her, to ask her something. Grace rushed past, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, fighting back an onslaught of emotion.

  She raced through the parking lot, trying to see through her watery vision, to where she parked the damn car. At last, there it was in the far corner. Grace ran, fumbling with her keys as she went.

  In the privacy of her car, she could release the bone in her throat, finally let the tears flow. She’d already lost her mother, now her aunt lay in the hospital, devastated by a stroke, and to top it all off, she still had to deal with her horrible sister. It was almost too much to bear.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Grace was thankful she had decided on her wool jacket and heavy scarf as she made her way through the grounds outside the mansion. It wasn’t raining yet, but it was a typical
Scottish morning in September, with a nip in the air and a mist on the ground.

  Something Morvin said the night before had Grace wanting to take a closer look around the estate. She had barely batted an eye when Grace told her about their aunt being in the hospital. “She was old...things happen.” She had said it so flippantly. And, Grace noticed, how she talked of Lena in the past tense.

  “But isn’t it strange that Mother just died of a heart attack, and now Aunt Lena seems to have had a stroke?” Grace asked.

  Morvin again replied in the most uncaring manner, “They didn’t look after themselves, had no stimulating outlet. I’ve got my beautiful garden. That’s my haven. It holds all my answers. It’s all I need.” She had this sinister, faraway look as she spoke. “Come to think of it,” Morvin continued, but now her sneering gaze landed on Grace, “neither do you. Maybe you should be careful about your health too.”

  Grace shivered as she thought about their conversation, the way Morvin was acting.

  She descended the back stairs and walked to the large patio. If you headed back from there, you’d end up at the pool area; left would take you to the back yard and forest beyond and, finally, heading right, where Grace was going, patchy moss-carpeted paths wound through once prided rose bushes, rhododendrons and such. Beyond that was Morvin’s private garden.

  She wondered if Morvin still fanatically tended her cherished plot of ground. Grace, nor anyone else, was ever allowed in there. Morvin forbade it. She remembered seeking it out a time or two as a curious little girl. The first few times she’d gotten away with, it but the last time, Morvin caught her, the hell she endured for that mistake was not worth the risk, and she never ventured to Morvin’s sacred garden again.

  She was five years old at the time, making Morvin around eighteen or so. It was summer, one of the warmest days that year. Grace remembered because she had been wearing her favorite sailor bathing suit with a little pleated skirt sewn into the waist. She knew she was not supposed to be in the garden, but it was so magical. Grace liked to imagine fairies or sprites dancing about among the many colorful flowers and whimsical garden ornaments.