Dearest Clementine: Dark and Romantic Monstrous Tales (Letters Book 1)

by Candace Robinson

  Frankie wanted to scream and cry, but who would she call for? Her ridiculous cousin or her aunt who wouldn’t be able to do anything, anyway?

  “How are you here?” She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her back against the headboard.

  A knock at the door interrupted Gordon before he could answer. The door pushed open, admitting Dr. Williams, the same doctor who had treated each of her sick sisters.

  “Good day, Miss,” Dr. Williams said.

  “Good day, Doc.”

  Dr. Williams was a burly man with large spectacles, a mustache that curled at the ends, and reddened cheeks. He was a kind man, but Frankie wanted him gone. She wanted to be alone, or better yet, wanted her sisters back.

  From his bag, the doctor pulled out a stethoscope, motioning her to lean forward. The stethoscope felt cold, even through the fabric of her thin nightgown.

  “Take deep breaths,” he said.

  She did just that, inhaling, exhaling, all while watching Gordon who stared at the door with his hands in his pockets.

  “Your heartbeat is a bit sluggish, but your temperature feels fine at the moment.” He raked his hand through his side-swept hair. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m ending up like them, aren’t I?” It was what had happened with all her sisters—she knew straight down to her bones what the outcome would be.

  “Let’s not focus on that. I’m going to leave you some medicine to try.” Before he left, he set the liquid-filled bottle at her bedside.

  After he closed the door, she heard the lock turning. She picked up the bottle, inspected the written words, and tossed it against the wall. The medicine hadn’t helped any of her siblings anyway.

  Gordon took a seat on the floor in the corner of the room where he stayed huddled. She didn’t speak to him and he didn’t speak to her. Sometimes she could feel his eyes on her, the way hers kept secretly shifting to him. Even when staring elsewhere, she still felt his heavy presence.

  No one else came in to check on her—not Felisha, and not her aunt. Frankie gripped her hair and felt the buildup of days spent sweating in bed. She stood from the mattress and padded toward the bathroom that connected to her room.

  “Where are you going?” Gordon asked, rising from the floor. His forehead wrinkled as if she would vanish.

  “I’m going to rinse off.” She thought about something then—a fear that he could walk through walls or bathroom doors and do what he wanted. “You aren’t going to come in, are you?”

  “Not unless you ask me to.” She couldn’t tell if he was trying to be flirtatious, but his expression remained on the serious side as though she quite possibly might need his help.

  “No, thank you, I’ll be fine.”

  Whirling around, Frankie quickly went into the bathroom and shut the door. She undressed and turned on the water, letting the tub fill as she stared at herself in the mirror. When she glanced down at her bare legs, they were covered in blue and purple bruises. Her sisters had started to bruise easily, too.

  Her curly brown hair was matted, her lips dry, and her skin pale. Shaking her head, she turned off the faucet of the tub and let her body sink down into the warm water. She scrubbed and scrubbed away at the remains of old sweat and too many thoughts. Tears slipped out then. All of her sisters were gone, and Wendy was the last tether of that siblingship. And now Wendy was dead, too. She closed her eyes and cried harder, until she couldn’t anymore.

  Time passed as she sat there, while the water grew cold. She released the drain and continued to sit in the tub until her body was covered in goosebumps and she started to shiver.

  After she stood, she let out a small groan because she’d forgotten her clothes. On the ivory counter, there was nothing but a bar of soap and a dinky rag. She hadn’t refilled the towels, and it looked as if her sister and aunt hadn’t either. She also didn’t want to use the old sweat-covered nightgown.

  “Gordon?” she called, stepping right up to the door, water cascading down from her hair to her feet.

  There came a shuffling movement, as if he pushed up on the other side of the door. “Yes?”

  “Are you… Are you able to grab things?” Perhaps she wasn’t clear enough. “Material things?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “Can you pull me out a new nightgown and … undergarments from the dresser.” Her cheeks warmed, and she was glad he couldn’t see her.

  “Of course.”

  She closed her eyes and silently cursed because she could have asked him to only collect the nightgown. After she’d dressed, she could have gotten the rest later, but it was already too late—the words had been spoken.

  With the small rag on the counter, she dried herself off the best she could.

  Standing firmly against the door, Frankie pulled it open. Gordon remained there with the clothing, and she hurriedly plucked the things from his hands. A thought entered her mind. “If my cousin had walked in with you holding these, what would she have seen?”

  “She’d have seen floating clothing.” He smiled. And it was the first time she’d seen him smile that day. It was a beautiful smile, one that easily caused a fluttering in her stomach. Something else came to her then.

  “Is it possible you could leave the room and haunt her for the night?” The thought of Felisha squirming over objects moving would help ease things for a little while.

  “If you insisted.” Gordon’s grin grew so wide, he was practically glowing before it fell and turned into another emotion she couldn’t name. “I haven’t explored the house in years. I used to go to the graveyard, but now I remain here or in the attic.”

  The stairs to the attic were in the room across the hall. She loved spending her time up there too, writing in her diary. She wondered if he’d been there when she had, but she didn’t ask.

  “Wouldn’t you have to go through the house to leave for the cemetery, though?”

  “No.” He motioned at the wall. “I can walk right through.”

  “Oh, yes, being a ghost and all.” Realizing she was still talking to him while being unclothed, she moved back and gently shut the door. She stayed near as she dressed and continued, “So, you mentioned years?”

  “Yes, it’s been a while.” He sounded as if his head was right against the door, and something in his tone spoke of a deep sadness.

  She’d only been living there with her sisters for the past year. Her aunt had bought the home several years after her husband passed away because she couldn’t stay with all the memories at the old one any longer. Frankie didn’t know anything about any of the previous owners. But now she was curious and wished she did.

  After running her fingers through her wet hair, she pushed open the door to find Gordon already seated on the edge of her bed. It felt improper, but he wasn’t even alive so she didn’t believe it mattered. Besides, she would probably be dead in the next few weeks or months, and this might be as close to a man as she would ever get.

  Before she could sit next to him, the door opened and Felisha plopped down another tray. After scooping up the old one, she hurried and shut the door as if Frankie were a disease.

  Frankie had barely touched the first tray of food, but her stomach was starting to tighten with hunger. She picked up the tray with steaming stew, a not-so-red apple, and a glass of water, then brought it to the bed. “Do you eat?”

  Gordon shook his head, running his long fingers across the quilt.

  “Of course not.” The soup scalded her tongue, but she was famished and finished everything in an unwomanly manner. A thin line of the broth slid down her chin, and she swiped the sleeve of her gown across her mouth.

  Gordon took the tray from her hands and set it beside the door. Minutes passed and the room started to blur—she could feel her body growing cold. “I’m not feeling so well.”

  He pressed a hand to her forehead. “You feel okay right now. Do you want me to let you rest?”

  She latched onto his sleeve and held him in place as if
she was a child losing her prized toy. “Please stay. I don’t want to be in here alone without Wendy.” As each of her sisters had died, someone had always been in the room, but not anymore.

  She closed her eyes then, still grasping the sleeve of a man, who was really a ghost, who was already dead, who was the only person that could be there with her. As she drifted off, dreams consumed her—decaying bodies, blood dripping, and large spiders rolling her in their webs. She sat up, her body shivering from the nightmare.

  “I think your fever started again.” The gentle voice caused her to jerk forward. For a moment, she’d forgotten about everything, including who he was.

  Frankie relaxed back against the headboard and stayed in a sitting position. The silence was becoming unbearable and she couldn’t fall back to sleep. She grew inquisitive, wanting to know more about this person who seemed quiet and gentle.

  “Gordon, will you tell me about your life?” she asked.

  A low chuckle escaped his throat, one that didn’t sound happy. “The days bleed into nights and all I have is torturous thoughts.” She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to continuously sit in this room or an attic. Why did he stop leaving?

  “What about your life before?”

  “Are you sure you want to hear it?” he asked, as though he was unsure if he wanted to tell it himself. “It’s not a pleasant one. There was a time when I was not a good man, in fact, I still am not.”

  “Don’t we all have a bit of the devil in us? We just have to learn to push the creature away.” Frankie had always believed in good and bad and sometimes her thoughts turned toward the dark side of things, but she always stayed good.

  “That’s the thing,” Gordon murmured, his voice silky. “I was the devil.”

  Her body froze and she gasped.

  Gordon’s hand shot out and clasped hers. “Or, to word that better, I gave into temptation.”

  Her hand grew sweaty, but she didn’t rip it away, even as part of her wanted to. Not yet. “Go on.”

  “I had a fiancée once,” Gordon started. “We were to be married, but I caught her making love to my brother.”

  “Oh no.” Her eyes widened. “So you—”

  “I killed them,” he interrupted.

  That was not what she expected him to say, not at all. “I’m…” Frankie didn’t know what to say. Was she frightened? She didn’t feel scared, but should she?

  “But that’s not all because … because I liked it.” Gordon released her hand as if giving her a chance to run away if she wanted. Yet she stayed. “They weren’t the first. My first kill was at fifteen. I had always loved the sight of blood, even though I told myself it wasn’t normal. Even though I knew it was wrong. There was just something soothing about seeing it flow. To keep the temptation away, I would cut myself, until something inside me needed more, wanted more. So at fifteen I began taking lives. Sometimes I could fight the urge, and sometimes I couldn’t. I’d try to take the older ones since they would be dead soon. But after my fiancée and brother, the craving became worse. I knew the only way to end it was to give up my own life. And what better way than giving myself a fatal wound and watching the blood pour from my veins until I was no more.”

  A dance with the devil.

  Frankie’s body remained straight as a board, her breathing too loud. She knew it was wrong to want to do things like that, but apparently so did he. In that moment, she wondered what it would be like to give in to that temptation. What if she snapped her cousin’s neck as she’d thought before when she’d been angry?

  Quickly, she tucked the thoughts away. “Do you still think about blood now?”

  “Every day.” He looked away from her, staring up at the ceiling.

  Wendy had seen him, as had her other sisters. She thought that they had all been hallucinating, and maybe they had been, maybe she was, too. But for some reason, if she was, she didn’t want the image to disappear because she was growing angry. “Did you ever think about spilling blood from my sisters, from me?”

  Frantically, Gordon shook his head. “Never them. And especially never you.”

  “Now that I can see you... You could hurt me, if you wanted to, couldn’t you?”

  “I could, but I wouldn’t.” He paused for a brief moment. “But I could have also hurt you before if I’d really wanted to, up in the attic.”

  “Because you can still lift objects.”

  “Because I can lift objects,” he murmured.

  Something curious in her heart beat at those words, and she didn’t say anything. She closed her eyes and rolled over. “I’m tired.” But her eyes remained open as she thought about how he had been with her up in the attic. And the sadistic part of her wished she had been able to see him then, too.

  For the next four weeks, Frankie lay in bed, regaining strength, losing strength. It was an endless repetition. Her sisters had never lasted this long once they came down with the sickness, but she was fighting.

  Gordon’s image was always there, and by her ability to see him, she knew she wasn’t getting any better.

  Three times a day, Felisha would hurry and set down the tray of food and take away the old one. Her cousin stared at her each time as if she wished Frankie was dead. Sometimes Frankie wished she were dead, too, but then Gordon was there to discuss things with.

  Since he had talked to her about his past, Gordon remained mum on the subject. His words about spilling blood had been wicked, but somehow she could see past it and wanted to know more.

  The door unlocked and opened, and Felisha set down the tray. “I heard you talking to yourself. You’re going mad just like your sisters, speaking to things that aren’t there,” Felisha seethed and slammed the door.

  For a long moment, Frankie studied the door and wondered what it would be like to draw a line with a knife across her cousin’s throat. But then she shook the thought away. It was only her being angry again, that devil she had to hold at bay.

  Gordon placed the tray in Frankie’s lap and she brought a spoonful of soup to her mouth. She ate quickly and then drank the bowl full of broth.

  After finishing, she set the bowl to the side and her stomach grew queasy. She tried to keep everything down, but she couldn’t stop it and all the food came barreling back up into the bowl.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Gordon, wiping her mouth with a napkin as she coughed.

  Gordon didn’t say anything—he peered down with a frown at the bowl and then at Frankie’s face. “I think there’s something wrong with the food.”

  “What do you mean?” All she could see was her bile, and her face heated because she’d expelled the contents of her stomach in front of him. She took the tray and set it by the door, but Gordon was already behind her.

  “Do you notice you get worse after you eat?” Gordon snapped, but not at her. “But then when you can’t eat for a while, you become slightly better. It seems to be a form of repetition.”

  “Maybe it’s something with my stomach. I prepared all the food myself for Wendy. It can’t be that.” As she thought about her youngest sister, Wendy had gotten sick, but she had never stopped eating. Some days, Frankie couldn’t eat at all.

  “You handled all of it?”

  She thought long and hard about her movements, cutting carrots, dicing potatoes, preparing the meat. “Yes, everything except for the spices.”

  “It has to be the spices then,” Gordon suggested, rubbing at his chin. “Where do you keep them?”

  “In the far back of the cabinet beside the stove.”

  “Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

  She watched as he walked through the wall and left her alone. A few moments later he slipped back into the room and stuck out his tongue, where she could see a few speckles of the spices resting there.

  “I may not eat,” he said, “but I can taste the poison saturating the spices.”

  Her breathing came out heavily, angrily.

  The only other two people inside the house were F
elisha and Aunt Gemma. And if it really was the spices, then it had to be one of those two people because she wasn’t the one poisoning her own sisters.

  Felisha refusing the food when Frankie had asked. The insisting that the doctor had said to add the spices. Her cousin arguing with Gemma about the will and going silent if anyone else entered the room. It was her.

  “Felisha,” Frankie whispered. Something dark slipped into her mind, and she locked eyes with Gordon. “How did you do your first kill?”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t…”

  “Just tell me.”

  He pulled at his lower lip then blew out a hard breath. “Knife to the throat so the screaming wouldn’t come.”

  Frankie nodded. “Tonight. In her sleep.”

  When night wrapped around the house in its entirety, she grabbed the knife from the drawer at her bedside. She’d kept it from her evening meal, and she squeezed the cool steel harder.

  “The door’s locked, you know.” Gordon sat down beside her on the bed, his leg brushing hers. “Do you want me to do it for you?”

  Closing her eyes, she pictured him with a screwdriver over Felisha’s chest and then slamming down a hammer. “No.” She’d rather it be her.

  “You won’t have to worry about regrets or nightmares.” He shifted closer until his arm was touching hers. “It would just be one more to add to my stack.”

  Frankie placed her hand on top of his thigh, right above his knee. “Thank you, but I can do it.”

  She stood and found a hairpin from the drawer and wiggled it inside the hole of the lock, failing.

  “Here, let me help you.” Gordon moved behind her, his breath warm at her ear, his cool fingers circling over her hand as if asking her permission.

  “All right,” she murmured, enjoying the nearness of him a bit too much.

  Together, he helped her jimmy the hairpin in until there was a soft click.

  “You could have done that this whole time?” Frankie asked, incredulous.

  He shrugged. “You never asked.”

  Secretly, she’d enjoyed spending time in the room with him. It had taken her mind off the death of her sisters, and the company was comforting.