Andrew was convinced that their theories were correct. They had made a lot of progress toward filling in the gaps in their knowledge. But Carmen’s question exposed the major issue that gnawed at all of them. How could they use what they had learned to put an end to Mika’s relentless stalking campaign for good?
The quiet stretched on.
“You know what I’m thinking, kids?” Dad said at last. “To get all our answers, I think we’ll have to pay a visit to the source. Mourning Hill.”
Chapter 48
Like a stealth submarine cruising turbulent ocean currents, the Rolls Royce Silver Shadow cut through waves of rain and gusting wind.
Her obedient cats gathered around her, Mika sat on the plush leather seats in the rear of the sedan, gazing out the side window.
Although her eyes took in the rain-blurred countryside, she was looking inward; viewing other times, places, and people with her mind’s vivid eye.
She reflected on chapters of her life; different times, divided like scenes in a novel.
She thought about the beginning . . .
She was her mother’s first and only child. She was born with a veil, as was her grandmother, and many ancestors before her. It was proof that she had inherited the gift that had run through her mother’s bloodline for generations. Second sight. The sixth sense. Extraordinary talents. She was special.
Her mother named her Celestina, after her grandmother, a free mulatto woman from Louisiana who used her talents to become a revered root worker.
Her father, a solemn man, had wished for a son, to carry on the Mourning family name. But he quickly warmed to her, adored her. Called her his princess. And used his considerable resources to indulge her every whim.
Nothing in the world is too good for Daddy’s princess. The world is yours, darling. Whatever you desire is yours.
He bought her expensive little girl dresses custom-tailored in London. Gave her a horse from a renowned breeder, when she was barely old enough to sit in the saddle. Had an ornate, elaborate dollhouse constructed for her that was large enough for a full-size adult to comfortably inhabit. Built a boxwood garden for her, containing life-size, stone statues of her favorite Greek goddesses: Aphrodite, Athena, Artemis, Hera. Hired private instructors to teach her piano, dance, painting, French, and Latin.
She always got what she wanted, and always would. Because Daddy taught her that that was her right as a princess. She deserved only the best.
Her mother, predictably, resented the attention her father showered upon her, declared that she was spoiled and would grow up to be unbearably selfish. Her father ignored her protests; he was so taken with his daughter that he’d apparently forgotten that he had a wife.
Mama knew all about the teachings that a special child such as she needed to acquire, in order to properly handle the gifts with which she’d been born. But embittered, Mama taught her nothing about her talents.
Therefore, Celestina learned all by herself.
She was four years old when she saw her first ghost. When she was out in the yard playing, a short man in overalls, with graying hair and a wrinkled, tanned face, leaned against a Georgia pine, scratching his protruding belly and staring at her. His image wavered like a reflection on a pond.
She wasn’t afraid. She was fascinated. When she mentioned the apparition to Mama, her mother, who knew better, told her to stop imagining things. Daddy didn’t believe her, either.
But she instinctively knew nothing was wrong with her; she was seeing real people who weren’t in the same place as her anymore. As she grew older, seeing ghosts became as frequent and ordinary as watching butterflies flitting around the flower garden.
She quickly graduated to more interesting activities.
Her cats, Circe, Iris, and Eos, pedigreed Russian Blues from the same litter, always had been excellent companions. One day, when she was six, she discovered that she could bond with her cats in a manner that went far beyond playing simple games with balls of thread. She learned that she could summon the cats—without speaking a word or making a gesture, even if they were in a different section of the mansion. They came running to her, unfailingly loyal, willing to please. Soon, she taught them to do anything that she desired, solely by her issuing telepathic commands.
Once she mastered the cats, her skills developed at a rapid pace. Making silverware rise in the air and turn end over end. Causing her mother’s dresses to dance around the room, like ladies at a debutante affair. Starting fires, merely by focusing on a small pile of twigs and visualizing a cone of flame . . .
She’d learned to hide her burgeoning abilities from her mother. Her mother would try to convince her that she was just an ordinary little girl and needed to stop playing foolish fantasy games. But she was far from being a common girl. She was a princess, like her daddy said. A particularly special princess.
When she was ten, she ventured into the upper room of the mansion for the first time.
She’d long believed that there was something unusual about the attic. On numerous occasions, she’d watched as, late as night, her father stumbled out of the doorway that led to the attic, his hair frizzy and eyes bulging, as if he’d been given a jolt of electricity. He would always secure the door with a heavy padlock. He was hiding something important inside.
One night, concealed around the corner, she saw her father stagger out of the attic and latch the door, and then amble off to bed. She went to the door and concentrated on the lock for several seconds . . . and it popped open and clattered to her feet.
Locks could no longer keep her away from what she wanted. But it had taken her years to screw up the courage to enter the attic.
Her palms tingling, she climbed the steps and emerged in the chamber.
A big, greenish orb revolved in front of her, sparks crackling across the translucent surface.
She moved forward, into it.
It was like walking into the sun.
Afterward, her life was never the same.
Pure, soul-searing psychic energy resided in the upper room. It had no consciousness, no malicious or positive intent. It was the equivalent of a fire that would never die; an ancient, limitless power source that had broken through a wall that separated the physical plane of existence from the world of the unseen. Indeed, the power was so transforming, so awe-inspiring, that one likely could have employed it to resurrect the dead.
And it was hers, to use as she desired. She was, after all, a princess. She could have anything in the world, do anything she wanted.
Her daddy already had been using the power, for his medicine work. He didn’t possess her gifts. But the energy aided him, all the same.
Working in tandem with her innate abilities, the power boosted her to a superhuman level, made her almost like the Greek goddesses she loved to read about. She expanded the uses of her talents far beyond anything she’d done before.
Invoking storms was an especially pleasing activity. A hail of stones. Nineteen inches of snowfall in southeast Georgia. Flash floods.
She did other stuff, too. Varied acts. Whatever caught her fancy.
She never exercised her powers to hurt anyone—though sometimes, people got hurt or died. For her, it was all about fun and discovery. As a princess, she had the right to have her way with the world, which she’d begun to consider as her own, gigantic dollhouse.
Then, when she was eighteen, she fell in love.
He was a tall, well-muscled young man with smooth cocoa skin, a new member of the crew that landscaped the grounds of their estate. Watching him work bare-chested in the summer sun, seeing his sweat-slicked muscles flexing, gave Celestina a warm, tingly sensation all over.
She decided that she would have him, at least to fulfill her sexual needs. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d taken one of the laborers for her own uses. She’d lost her virginity at fifteen; her body, deliciously ripe at that age, had enticed one of the virile, young gardeners to knock off work and spend the afternoon with her in t
he woods on a remote region of the estate. She quickly learned that sex was a powerful means to get a man to comply with her wishes. No man had ever been able to resist her. She often liked to use her beauty and charms to get attention, to drive a man to do anything to win her favor.
But her new prospect was different. He had a sharp mind, something she rarely encountered in the men who worked at the house. He possessed the imagination of an artist, such as a painter or writer. He was more like one of the high society men that she’d met at formal functions—but those stuffy men feared her, and spread nasty rumors behind her back. This man, however, this handsome manual laborer, displayed no fear of her.
He understood her. Knew she was special. And like her daddy, he called her his princess.
She fell in love fast and hard. So did he. He was her soul mate. She’d seen it in his eyes, when they first kissed in a meadow on a sweet August day.
But they kept their romance secret. Her father regarded black men as inferiors, and would likely disapprove. Nevertheless, after three dizzying months of exchanging secret love letters and sharing clandestine dates, her lover could hide his ambitions no longer. He wanted to ask her father for her hand in marriage. She tried to talk him out of it, said that she would agree to marry him and didn’t need her father’s approval and they could elope, that she would renounce her inheritance to be with him. But he was a proud man and refused to keep his love for her in the shadows.
He met with her father. And was driven out of the house, her father chasing him with angry fists and a stream of threats.
She talked to her father, too. She confessed her love for this man and begged for his blessing. Her father had never denied her anything. How could he deny her this, the greatest gift she’d ever received?
But he vehemently opposed her wishes. Eyes swollen in their sockets, he shouted that he would never allow a Negro man to marry his precious daughter—and inherit his estate.
Her mother, smiling smugly, pleased to see her daughter’s hopes crushed, sided with her father, too.
She hatched a plan to elope with her lover. But only two days later, while lounging on the lake, fishing, a rifle shot to the back of the head dropped her lover to the sandy banks. The authorities ruled his death a hunting accident.
She knew better. Her father had hired someone to kill him.
His murder plunged her into the most profound grief she’d ever known. She dressed in black and tore plugs out of her hair.
She would kill herself. Death was preferable to living another day without her love.
She climbed into a half-filled bathtub. With a razor, she slit both of her wrists. Blood flowed from the gashes . . . but within seconds, the wounds healed. Screaming, she slashed herself again, with the same result. And again . . .
But after years of drawing upon the power in the upper room, her body had developed powerful defenses against injury. Her suicide attempt was futile.
Soon, her grief gave way to rage.
Damn anyone for denying her what she wanted.
She vowed to give her father the same punishment he’d administered to her soul mate.
All her life, she respected the mental space of people around her. But she blew like a psychic tsunami into her father’s thoughts, and pushed him to madness.
He took a shotgun and killed her mother, then put the warm barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Revenge is a meal best served cold.
As expected, she inherited her father’s fortune, and Mourning Hill. Townspeople speculated about the successful physician, flying into a senseless, murderous rage. She ignored them and went about her affairs as usual.
Her primary—indeed, her only—purpose for living was to unite with her soul mate again.
He had been killed, but she believed he would return. Spirit was eternal. His spirit would cycle through the planes of existence, and eventually return to an earthbound life.
She had to be ready for her groom’s return. Had to keep herself looking young and beautiful for him. He wouldn’t want a decrepit old woman as his bride.
She discovered a method to preserve her youthful appearance: soul energy. Not the power in the upper room. Only harvesting the energy of others worked.
She lured travelers, runaways, and the lost to her estate, as she needed them.
Walter, the longtime caretaker, was helpful in that regard. He did the dirty work. In return for his services, she granted him a dramatically lengthened lifespan and the strength of a young man.
Of course, she kept her cats around, too. Gave them special talents. Her little guardians.
She realized that in absorbing the energies of innocents, she was, in effect, killing them. But it was for a worthwhile purpose. She was staying attractive for her soul mate, her prince.
No cost was too high for her happiness. Her father, may his soul rot in hell forever, had taught her that lesson.
Over the years, she searched for her soul mate. Visited countless nightclubs, parties, and social gatherings. Combing the crowds for a man with a sparkle in his eye, a man who just might be the one. Drawing prospects to her estate, for a closer look. In seeking her prince, she’d kissed hundreds of frogs. Never losing her faith that, one day, at a moment of truth, she would gaze in a man’s eyes and see the soul of her long-lost lover.
And when she saw Andrew’s eyes, those soul mate eyes, she realized that, at last, her wait was over.
Sighing, Mika looked away from the window.
She’d lived such a long life, full of varied chapters. She was nearing the end of an old chapter and the beginning of a new one. A much happier one.
Andrew wasn’t going to hide from her anymore. She wasn’t going to let him. She knew what was best for him. Even if he didn’t yet realize it himself.
The cargo in the trunk would convince him of the grave seriousness of her mission.
She needed him; she was incomplete without him. So be it that it was her responsibility to unite them in everlasting love.
She was going to show him irrefutable proof of the love they once shared, too. To break down the final barriers in his heart.
As they rolled down the highway, the storm clouds parted, and the golden sun beamed down on her, like a beneficent father.
Smiling, she snuggled into the seat cushions with her cats, and sat back to enjoy the rest of the ride to retrieve her soul mate.
Chapter 49
The thunderstorm passed. Late-afternoon sunlight pierced the venetian blinds.
They talked about visiting Mourning Hill. Andrew declared that going there today would be foolish. Dad and Carmen agreed with his contention that they needed more time to plan a strategy.
“In my dreams, getting inside that house is like trying to take a fortress,” Dad said. “I don’t think it’ll be easy for us.”
“We’ll need to stake out the place,” Andrew said. “That should give us some ideas.”
“But we do it during daylight hours, guys,” Carmen said. “I’m not too keen on going there at night. Nighttime and haunted houses—not a good mix for me.”
“We can do it tomorrow morning,” Dad said. “It’s about a three-hour drive from here.”
“If we’re ready by then,” Andrew said. “We’ve got time to brainstorm. Remember—Mika doesn’t know we’re here. We can take our time, prepare to do this right.”
“Good point,” Carmen said. She clasped her hands together. “Okay, anyone hungry? I’m starvin’ like Marvin.”
“Could use a bite,” Dad said.
Andrew rose. “I’ll fire up the grill.”
Outdoors on the deck, Andrew cooked chicken breasts and hamburgers on the gas grill. Carmen worked in the kitchen, whipping up potato salad and baked beans. Dad leaned against the deck railing, sipping a Heineken and gazing at the lake.
For several minutes, neither of them spoke. They quietly admired the shimmer of sunshine on the water. Listened to the honking of geese and the rustle of wind-blown leaves.
“Nice place Eric’s got here,” Dad finally said. “How deep’s the water?”
“Three or four feet around the dock,” Andrew said. “You wouldn’t want to dive in. Gets deeper as you move farther away from the banks.”
Dad bobbed his head. “Quiet out here, too. Good place to collect your thoughts.”
“It’s a nice hideaway.” Andrew used tongs to flip a burger. “I’m glad Eric was able to let me stay here. I’ve no idea when we’ll rebuild my house.”
“That was an awful thing.” A frown wrinkled Dad’s face. “Lose any of your books?”
“No, I always back ’em up online. I keep the first editions in a safe deposit box, too.”
“That’s good. At least your livelihood’s intact.”
“Speaking of livelihood, I forgot to tell you. I got a new offer from the publisher.”
“Really? How much?”
“Five hundred.”
“Thousand?” Dad grinned. “I’ll be damned, that’s great. Congrats!” He clapped Andrew’s shoulder.
“Thanks. Of course I haven’t been able to celebrate yet, not with everything that’s been going on.”
“Of course not.” Dad’s face tightened. He stared into the depths of his beer bottle. Scratched his head.
The silence hung between them, thick as smog.
I’m tired of this. I’ve got stuff I want to say to this man. Why the hell can’t I have a real conversation with my own dad?
Idly, Dad stroked his chin. It was another one of those gestures that Andrew shared with him. He stroked his chin like that when he was pondering what he wanted to say.
Maybe Dad wanted to have a heart-to-heart conversation, too.
Andrew placed the tongs beside the grill, rubbed his palms on the apron he wore around his waist.
Go ahead and talk to him. He’s your father, man.
It wasn’t Mark Justice speaking; it was the wise voice of his conscience. He’d learned the hard way to listen to that voice when it offered advice.
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