Table of Contents
Harrowed Dreams
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
A Note from Timothy Moonlight
Harrowed Dreams
The Penny Prelude Secret #1
by
Timothy Moonlight
Copyright
Timothy Moonlight
Copyright © 2020, Timothy Moonlight Productions
Cover design by ebooklaunch.com
Timothy Moonlight Productions first publication date: January 18, 2020
http://motivationbymoonlight.com
EBooks are not transferable. All Rights are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America by Timothy Moonlight Productions, 2020
To my dearest friend, Madeline Graham, who taught me to dream.
1
Life shouldn’t be dark, but light, yet mine is as foreboding as the still water into which I stare. It is an ever-flowing mystery, as silent as the clouds which pass over our heads at night, yet as unsettling as the rain they transport. My blonde shoulder-length locks are so pallid, they appear almost gray. My infectious smile is able to light up a room or lift a friend’s spirits, but I can’t bear to curve my lips just now, for I’m deeply troubled. I have no desire to be deceptive with anyone, much less myself. A wholesome woman is most becoming, one who is a trusted friend, a companion to the needy, a gentle touch to the broken. Through practiced refinement, I’m pleased with my gains.
I dip my toe into the water, sending my reflection trembling across the rippled disturbance. It is a clear afternoon, full of promise. Trees line the perimeter of the shore. I’m sitting on a small pier, no more than a foot above the water, easily the best spot on the lake. The sun is warm against my bare skin, but not overbearing. I could stay here all afternoon, especially if the breeze continues. Yet for a reason I can’t see, something I can only feel, a gluttonous worm of worry is gnawing at my heart. I look into the water once more, wondering if my reflection holds any hint of my concern.
It is suddenly dark. The afternoon which once was, evaporates, and night has invaded and conquered the day. I hear a bullfrog croak in the distance. He is either defending his territory or trying to attract a mate. Oh, the trouble and choices associated with the circle of life. The moon isn’t visible tonight, blocked by a flurry of clouds.
A deep and carrying sound reverberates through the woods behind me, jarring my teeth and shuddering through my bones. My heart jolts and I can feel the vibrations rattle my bones. I spin around and climb to my feet. My legs are shaking as I cross over the creaking pier planks to the shore.
This evening has changed altogether, and not for the good.
The reeds are knee-high, slapping against my bare legs as I barrel over them. I must get to the cause of the disturbance, whether I want to or not. Fearful and on the verge of hyperventilating, I claw through low branches in search of the unknown. The brush is thick, but I must keep going.
A familiar voice travels through the woods. Who is it? It becomes strained and forms a cry. Overcome with a sense of panic, I quicken my pace, unsure of everything, too paranoid to think clearly. A plethora of questions pluck my focus from what is happening around me. Where am I? Why am I panicked by the blast?
My bare feet are stung by small twigs, then are consoled in the cool mud; my path is a mixture of torment and delight. An embankment is before me. The hill has a steep grade, but I truck onward, huffing and puffing all the way like a strained engine. The little engine that almost couldn’t.
A dirt road is at the top. A clearing is on the other side with a few trees, but nothing like the forest I just ventured through. Dust hangs like fog in the air. What transpired here mere moments ago is anyone’s guess. The air is a coiled snake of silence, ominous with intent, yet weighty, thick with foreboding mystery.
In the faint gray light, I see something hanging from the bottom limb on one of the trees across the road. It is large and square, but I can’t reason what it could be. I cross the graveled path and am about to descend into the field when I realize what it is.
A blanket. The breeze flaps at the corners, giving it away. Two ends have been tied to the branch above. It dances in the light, tickled by the wind, a prisoner of nature, forced to watch what unraveled here but without a mouth to divulge the secrets.
I look on the dirt path for clues. Tire tracks form minute crests in the sand. I listen, hopeful to hear more, but all is silent. A tremor begins in my stomach and a horrible dread overshadows my heart, like an all-consuming cancer. It forces me to open my mouth and whimper. I take the middle of the road and trod along, chasing in the direction of settling dust. With each step I take, my heart thuds.
I have no reason to feel this way, do I? Worry eats through my composure like acid poured over a stretched piece of linen. The trees loom around me in the growing darkness. They cast deep shadows, extending their reach to me along the road. Gravel crunches under my bare feet. I’m in no condition to make this journey. I am not usually bare-footed. Where are my shoes? How did I find myself in this predicament?
With each passing step, worry breeds into unabashed fear. The worm has finished dining on my heart and inches along in one of my veins, seeking another organ to consume. I have missed something. I look into the woods. Is someone watching me? Am I in danger? I glance over my shoulder. No one is there.
The rocks pierce the bottom of my soles. I yelp in pain, but I must continue on. There is a trickle of blood on the path behind me. A needy, internal urgency forces me to pick up the pace. Tears are streaming down my face and I don’t know why. Sorrow erupts through my tattered heart. My chance has passed, but what have I missed?
2
There is a terrible crick in my neck. I’m lying against something hard. At least, I believe I am until I try to open my eyes. My eyelids feel heavy, as if I haven’t slept in a long spell, but I know this isn’t the case. The drool on my yellow blouse is enough evidence. I wipe my mouth, stopping the tap. My environment is unfamiliar, but environment isn’t quite the right word to describe this place.
I’m leaning against the wall on a partial landing, sitting upon plush red carpet, where two giant staircases converge. Hanging from the ceiling above me is the biggest chandelier I’ve ever seen. It splays light across the entire massive foyer. A set of double doors, twin towers of frosted glass, sit at the foot of the two stairs which sway majestically through the air, connecting the second floor to the first. The doors climb the massive wall halfway before terminating into the structure.
I rub my neck as I blink mental cobwebs away. Trying to get to my feet, I find I don’t have the strength to stand. No matter. I lean against the wall and wait as if i
t’s perfectly normal to be stranded in the middle of a staircase. If I had a tin can, a marker and a piece of cardboard, I could beg alms from passersby.
“Why, Mrs. Prelude! What on earth are you doing here?”
The shock in the voice commands my attention, but I don’t see the person until I look down at the foot of the stairs. A man in a black coat, black slacks and a white dress shirt looks shocked to see me. He scrambles up the steps. His eyes are alert, his brow furrowed with concern. He is clearly stunned to find me here; that makes two of us. His shoes are polished, a shiny black that reflects the bright light. His posture is as erect as a freshly split piece of firewood.
“Mrs. Prelude, are you alright?”
I nod, but am quite confused. Who is this man? “I’m fine.”
“You’re not hurt?” His hands are clad in white gloves, made of the finest cotton. He grabs my arm to help me to my feet. “I don’t know if that’s a wise move or not. You see, I don’t—"
Before I know it though, I’m standing. Supported by fawn legs, I wobble slightly and place a hand against the wall to steady myself. His grip is firm as it returns to my arm, ensuring I don’t collapse.
“You have no idea how worried we have been,” the man exclaims. “Mr. Prelude will be most excited when he arrives home.”
“Mr. Prelude?”
“Why, of course.”
“And you said I am Mrs. Prelude?”
A dazed silence fills the air, and he looks at me with concern anew. “Yes, madame. Penny Prelude.”
I look back at him. “As you’ve probably guessed, I’m not sure where I am.” I pause before continuing. “Or who I am, or who you are.”
His smile droops and his eyes lose a bit of their luster as sympathy replaces the void. “I’m Henry, madame, Henry Reynolds. I’ve been the head butler here at Ash Manor for many years.”
“And my husband?”
His stance straightens even more; an impossibility, I think. “Mr. Robert Prelude.”
He guides me up the stairs in a slow and measured pace. My legs won’t cooperate as eagerly as I would like, as if I’m a row crop tractor in need of oil. As the cobwebs continue to fall from my mind, I realize I don’t know where I’m going. “Is Ash Manor my home, Mr. Reynolds?”
“Ah, madame, call me Henry.”
“Henry? It sounds so strange to address you that way.”
“It’s how you’ve always addressed me, madame.” At the top of the stairs, we turn the corner. I place a hand on the bannister for additional support as we walk.
“Mr. Reynolds is only proper. This is my house?”
“Yes, madame.”
The wall upstairs is a vivid red, where several expensive-looking paintings are aligned. One shows a dog in a pit looking up into the sky for aid from his predicament. A pair of men are climbing down a ladder, one after another with a length of rope to help. There is a caption, but I don’t have time to read it as we pass. I have to look where I’m going, peering directly in front of me. My head spins, as if I’m on a confounded tilt-o’-whirl in an amusement park.
“What happened to me, Mr. Reynolds?”
“You’ve been ill for quite some time. Mr. Prelude has been terribly worried about you. We all have.”
“We?”
“The staff.”
We enter a bedroom the size of three regular rooms. An oversized, plush king bed stands against a wall with a bench at the end of the footboard. A large chest of drawers has a coffee cup, several balls of yarn, and a pair of scissors on top. An oval mirror is on a swivel stand against the wall. There is a bay window near the bed. I look outside and find the grounds are freshly manicured.
A door is cracked open, where a trace of light spills into the room. From what I can see inside, it is a massive closet and I’m now in an exploratory mood. As I wonder about my wardrobe, my mind shifts into a tailspin and I grip Mr. Reynolds’s arm with both hands. He leads me to an oversized armchair which I ease into slowly, my head still reeling.
I close my eyes and place the crook of my elbow over my forehead, trying to drown an invading headache.
“Can I get you anything?” he asks softly.
I shake my head no.
“Mrs. Prelude, I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to go to sleep.”
“I have no intentions of sleeping. I feel as though I’ve had a great amount of sleep, too much really.”
“That’s because you have, madame.”
I pull my elbow up and squeeze open one eye to peer at him. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve had a great deal of sleep. We didn’t know if you would ever come out of the coma.”
3
“A coma? What happened to me?”
“You took a terrible tumble, knocked your head against a rock. Mr. Prelude never talks much about it. It’s taken a terrible toll on him. He loves you so.” His ostentatious pride of my doting husband could be seen in his swelled chest and pervading smile, which is set so deeply upon his face, he might have been expecting a round of applause from me. Being informed about how much I’m cherished is a nice feeling, especially when it’s seen and acknowledged by someone other than yourself. I could get used to it.
As I sit again, the tension in my head begins to clear, which prompts more questions I hadn’t thought of before. “Do I have children?”
“No, madame.”
“Does he want children?”
His eyes dart back and forth, taken aback by the question. “You’ll have to ask him about that.”
“I suppose I will.” What was I to do all day in a mansion this size without children, all by myself?
Rain begins to tick on the roof. I gaze out the window to see a steady stream layering the field of trimmed grass. Daylilies line a section of the road. A gazebo sits adjacent to a pond, and a vague memory floats across my mind, but I don’t have the faintest reason why. Purple irises and black-eyed Susans are plotted along a trail.
I glance at Mr. Reynolds. He’s looking at me as if I’ve been suspected of a crime. “What?”
He moves to the bay window, silent and brooding, then closes the drape, blocking my view. “The rain always seems to upset you.”
“What ever do you mean?”
“You’ve always stated in the past that the rain is the prince of a joyless day, the thief of happiness, a duller of moods.”
“I have?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Mr. Reynolds, I’d like a tour of my home.”
“Are you sure you’re up for it? Might it be better to wait until another, more suitable time?”
“I’m feeling better now. I can manage.”
He casts a long gaze at me filled with silence while tightening his lips before speaking. “Very well. I can’t be too long. Dinner must be served at the scheduled time.”
I stand. My legs still feel like jelly spread too thin over a piece of bread. “Then we better get a move on. No time for dilly-dally.”
We cross the balcony again and I glance once more at the chandelier above the grand foyer. The beauty of the pair of grand staircases complements the architecture of the home. A long hallway is ahead of us, but Mr. Reynolds begins down the stairs.
“What is down this hall?”
He turns back to me. “Bedrooms and bathrooms, mainly.”
“Mainly?”
“Well, there is a study and a game room, too.”
I cross my arms, feeling cheated on my tour already.
“Fine.” He begrudgingly climbs the stairs and leads the way.
Every bedroom holds a king-size bed and while each room isn’t as grand as the master, it would put those in lesser homes to shame. I linger in a bathroom. A flash of lightning startles my reflection in the mirror. My head spins again. I close my eyes, hoping Mr. Reynolds doesn’t see my lapse of strength. He is further down the hall and senses I’m not near him. The tile grout doesn’t have a speck of dust or hair inside. The tub and sink are spotless. Nothing to see here
. Several of the doors ahead are closed. I try the handle of one, only to discover it is locked.
The next one I try turns and opens. I step into another bedroom.
The only difference in this one is a set of minute figurines behind a glass cabinet. I marvel at their detail and beauty. On an upper shelf sits a small rabbit made of glass. It is sitting on its hind legs, with obscure eyes, ears pointed to the sky. Its posture is rigid as if alarmed by a dangerous presence. A small set of test tube vials rest on another shelf. A collection of miniature faux skulls with missing eyes and small chipped teeth – their detail is magnificent – cover a third. There must be thirty of them arranged, facing me as if forming a singularity to conquer a world problem.
I can hear Mr. Reynolds hurry to the opening. “Ah, the figurines. Some are porcelain.”
I reach for the glass.
“Madame, I wouldn’t bother touching those. You’d be in a complete uproar if you were feeling your usual self.”
“They are mine, are they not?”
“They are yours, but they are also very expensive. You keep them in this bedroom because no one is allowed in here, not even myself. Really, this should have been locked. I don’t know why it wasn’t.”
Two pieces draw my eye. A cup with a small angel perched on the top curve of the handle. His wings are rigid and he is resting his chin on one of his hands, similar to Michelangelo’s David. An old porcelain bowl rests nearby. Even in the dark room, its rim sparkles. My breath is caught in my throat as my heart pounds. I feel something nipping at the back of my mind, a nagging thought, perhaps one I don’t want to remember. My breath wheezes through my nose, in and out. I open my mouth as I can’t catch my breath. It fogs the cabinet glass.
“Mrs. Prelude?” Mr. Reynolds grabs my arm forcefully and pulls me toward the door. “Are you alright?” There is worry in his voice and his grip is firm, too firm. He pulls me into the hallway, closing the door behind us. He draws a key from his pocket and locks it. “You mustn’t intrude into these rooms without asking me.” I lean against the wall, still trying to find my breath. Now that we’re outside the room, he releases me. My legs tremble, but he doesn’t bother ensuring I stay standing. Was the worry in his voice earlier for my welfare, or something else?
Harrowed Dreams Page 1