by Alice Ayden
“Speedy.” Lillia winked at Cora. “Now, let me explain to you how you’re going to act from now on.”
Anne gasped as Lillia clenched her arm and marched her through the parlor out of sight.
When did Lillia become a weapon? At least she damaged with less bloodshed. That uneasy feeling of being watched mossed over Cora again. Her pulse lurched. She listened intently. Someone watched her. Standing in the hall, she glanced around. Nobody lingered outside the front or back windows. She crept to the Grand Staircase and peered up towards the second and third floors. Shadows didn’t instantly flee; sounds didn’t echo weirdly. Nothing indicated an impending ambush.
Cora stopped the search for danger. “What’s happening to me?” She couldn’t shake the feeling of being ruthlessly hunted like a lost gazelle.
Just then, a scream shattered the space. A stack of papers tossed to the floor and something metal hit the wall as a man lurched towards Cora.
He hesitated but rushed to the back door. “I’m not here if your grandmother asks.” He fled out the door and into the gardens.
“Ah.” That explained it. Cora’s infamous grandmother Maeve Austen, always known to everyone as Grand Maeve, held a PhD in harassment with a Master’s in stalking.
The man ran back inside with a pained expression. “Your Aunt Bitty’s out there.”
Cora winced. “Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.” She found it difficult to come up with different apologies for her family and wondered how many they had to use for her.
Maeve glided from the dining room in a flowing light pink dress and soft, tattered ballet slippers. Not even her dozen bracelets would betray her location; they didn’t jangle. She warmly smiled at Cora. Maeve’s graceful hands touched the man’s arm delicately. “You have the most intoxicating scent of fresh wood shavings and lilacs. Carpentry has done wonders for you. How are you today?”
The man flinched and fidgeted with his tool belt.
Cora noticed a slight twinge on the right side of her head.
Grand Maeve glanced at Cora. “Do not crease your eyes like that, Cora. The result is quite unflattering.” Maeve’s short crimsoned hair framed her thin face, and her makeup enhanced her delicate features and made her sixty years younger. Her skin glowed because she used sparkly blush that caught the light. As a child, Cora imagined Grand Maeve had the power of Helen of Troy.
Cora’s headache graduated to queasy.
“You alright, Miss Austen?” the man asked.
Cora nodded. She touched her head hoping to prevent the pain from spreading further.
“Oh, she’s fine. She’s an Austen and my granddaughter which makes her superior even on her worst days to the Morgans on their best.” Grand Maeve transferred her attention back to the man. “Now, tell us of your plans for today.”
“There’s a loose window pane in the outdoor kitchen,” the man said matter of factly. “And I’m fixin' to look at the banister upstairs.”
Grand Maeve sighed. The man captured her interest not the detailed explanation of his whereabouts. “And where are the tour guides this morning? Especially the delicious Taylor?”
“I saw Anne,” Cora said.
Grand Maeve shook off the image like a wet dog. “Anne is an ugly skein of yarn wrongly wound.” She studied her manicured nails. “Have you seen my other favorite?”
“I thought I saw Aunt Bitty yesterday.” Cora smiled.
Grand Maeve scrunched her face as if she’d just spotted a jalapeño lurking in her peach pie. “Thank goodness that child doesn’t leave her outdoor kitchen. You know I meant Lillia. Why vex me?”
Mrs. Kiness walked in and joined the conversation by glaring at the man. “And are we taking yet another break?”
The man cleared his throat and hurried back to the dining room.
Lillia twirled in. Cora stepped aside to provide more twirling room. “Grand Maeve.”
“My darling, Lillia.” Grand Maeve hugged her in between twirls. “One of the few Morgans I truly like.”
In awe of Lillia’s ability to wear her mask so well, Cora wanted to be more alert to clues she’d missed. She would never betray Lillia’s secret, but Cora didn’t know why Lillia needed her secret.
“Mrs. Hodghes informed me that Ausmor is expecting several tours of young military men.” Grand Maeve allowed the words to drip from her tongue like fresh molasses. “Young. Military. Men. Of course, I immediately thought of my darling granddaughter.”
Cora scoffed. “Wouldn’t inflict my madness on anyone else.”
Grand Maeve shrugged. “What about my darling grand niece?”
Lillia beamed. “Are the men in their military costumes?”
“Maybe they aren’t wearing any clothes at all.” Grand Maeve and Lillia giggled.
Mrs. Kiness sighed as her eyes patrolled for anything needing attention.
“I’ll try to be back.” Lillia said in between twirlings. “But my friend Darlene just had her baby. I’m going to the hospital with the others.”
Grand Maeve frowned. “Why? It’s a baby. How different can it be from every other baby on the planet? Besides, I’ve seen this Darlene person. A pretty baby she couldn’t have.”
Cora shook her head.
The clocks chimed 9:30. Tourists waited patiently outside as a tour guide peeked through the windows waiting for the family to clear.
Grand Maeve ignored the guide. “Have I convinced you, my darling Lillia, to ignore the dreaded 120th celebration this year?”
Everyone knew the party for the 120th was a week away. Frank Austen and his sister Celia Austen Morgan acquired the land in 1798 and finished building Ausmor in 1814; but one of the previous Morgans had demanded the celebration number never exceed 120. No one knew why.
Grand Maeve sighed. “Can we at least agree not to invite those Damn Other Morgans? Especially not that insufferable Mags.”
Footsteps reverberated down the hall and grew closer. Cora hoped it was a tour guide, a lost tourist, anything but…
“What are we discussing?” Margaret Morgan Stonston - Mags - lunged into the conversation.
“Syphilis,” Grand Maeve sighed.
Cora rolled her eyes. “You jinxed it.”
Officially, Lillia’s reclusive grandfather, V. Morgan, was married to Maeve’s sister, Susannah, and had one child, Lillia’s father. Unofficially, he also had two daughters – Mags and Cecelia Morgan Idoli - by two different, unstable maids. Fortunately, Cecelia lived in Rome; unfortunately, Mags lived next door at Stone Hill.
Johnston slithered in and stood next to his mother, Mags. Cora’s stomach clenched. Perhaps Johnston wouldn’t notice her.
“My Cora. C to my J.” Johnston grinned at Cora displaying too much of his skyscraper sized teeth as he picked at his fingers.
Cora imagined a heap of discarded skin where Johnston stood. Must he litter bits of himself everywhere? She prevented her lip from curling up because she thought that would be rude, but hearing Johnston call her ‘my Cora’ did produce a bit of bile.
“Oh,” Mags looked back and forth between her son and Cora. “I do so love those two together.”
Cora’s stomach would have been more stable if she’d devoured a dozen carob coated green olives. “Pejorative mornings prefer mellifluous caramel dogs.”
Grand Maeve laughed.
“Oh, my. Is she contagious?” Mags squinted at Cora and stepped back. She ran her perfectly manicured red fingernails through her newly blonde bob, smoothed her crinkly brown dress, checked that each diamond earring centered perfectly in each ear, and scanned the room. Even though she and Grand Maeve perfected a hatred for each other, they shared the same otherworldly youthful appearance and wicked appetite for all things men.
“And Lillia.” Johnston licked his lips as he leered Lillia up and down.
Grand Maeve glared at him. “Honestly.”
Johnston cleared his throat. His deep rattle bang wheeze sounded like something pneumonia aspired to be. Johnston, well int
o his teens, twenties, thirties or forties, anxiously wished to live at Ausmor, but his mother was not the oldest. “I don’t mean to be abstruse, but...”
Cora took a deep breath to prepare for another lengthy bore of Johnston circumnavigating sentences with useful terms such as ‘toherewitherfore.’
“I hope someone kicks him in the nuts.” Grand Maeve said.
“I beg your pardon?” Mags stepped back a bit.
Grand Maeve smiled. “I was just reminded of something I read in today’s paper.”
Mags sputtered. “Well, we are here to discuss the 120th.”
“Bored now.” Lillia twirled a few hundred times. “When I was a kid, the 120th was cancelled five times in a row.”
“Cancelled!” The chandeliers jumped at Mags’ shriek, and a few of the white roses drew their petals closed like a drawbridge.
It hadn’t been cancelled, but Mags irritation was a shared hobby.
Johnston stared at Cora. “I have longed for another dance with my Cora.”
“I don’t dance anymore,” Cora said quickly.
“I bet I can make you dance,” Johnston blurted in his aggressively creepy voice.
Grand Maeve’s glare produced a few more hundred sweat beads to form around Johnston’s receding dirty blond hair and pale, bloated face. Those were among the many things that made Johnston less than popular.
Grand Maeve ran her hand down her lengthened neck. “This is all stress and not healthy for my complexion.”
The front door opened and tourists spilled in like ants swarming a honey jar.
Grand Maeve caught her reflection in a mirror. “I would have been such a beautiful widow had I ever married.”
“Do all families start their days like ours?” Cora asked.
“Lillia, the delicious military men will arrive at two.” Grand Maeve scanned the tourists for enticing men and shrugged.
A wave of nausea confronted Cora. Vomiting: not a group activity. She didn’t want to headline the newsletter. “They won’t be found.” Cora spoke but barely above a whisper.
“What?” Johnston snatched the opportunity to stalk Cora. “Who won’t be found?”
Cora shut her eyes tight. The walls and ceiling were made of old stone that held onto the icy chill. One light bulb dangled from the low ceiling. Cora opened her eyes; tears welled as the throbbing in her head intensified. “They’re in the cellar, and he’s coming back.”
Chapter 10: The Witness
In the cellar, Natalie dabbed at the blood as it slowly trickled down her forehead. She studied the drippings on the ceiling, walls, stove, light bulb. “Didn’t know we had that much blood in us.”
Natalie hoped Jessica died quickly. Natalie couldn’t imagine being conscious during it. “Pain would’ve knocked her. Had to.”
A sliver of light peered under the tiny crack around the cellar door. “From the sun or moon?” Natalie forced herself to stand up but slipped and crashed to the ground. “Rachel was ripped. Bony Marie and Tiff makes three. Poor Am with no fam. Screaming Sally wasn’t alive, and Jess was a mess.” Natalie flinched when she heard herself.
She brushed the hair out of her eyes and pretended a reporter waited for a tour. She motioned around the dark room like a flight attendant. “Just your typical bowels of the house windowless, cold, damp, blood in the air cellar.” Natalie stared up at the ceiling. “Don’t think anyone’s up there now.” Her eyes glassed over. She came to after a few minutes as if nothing had happened.
She tapped on the gray walls. “Stone. Everywhere. Flakes off like dandruff.” Natalie wiped the chalky residue on her jeans. “Dirt floor doesn’t warm the toes. One tiny light bulb, but you don’t wanna see what he does down here. And there.” Natalie pointed to the hallway that led to the cellar’s door.
“Don’t know what it looks like from the outside. I was blindfolded that day.” Natalie’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of the day in the alley when he’d found her. “That handle. Other side: freedom. Warmth. Sun. Smiles.” Natalie let each word linger for a bit before frowning. “There’s nothing alive down here. Ghosts? Would they ask about that?” She wondered how many of the girls lingered. She glanced around the cellar. “You shouldn’t stay.” Natalie bowed her head. “I wouldn’t.”
“There...” Natalie pointed to another corner. “That’s where he does it. Blood still fresh.” She studied the darker dirt. “He tore her up. Bits and pieces and so much blood.”
“Never getting out of here. I’ve seen everything. What he did to them.” They pled for mercy or murder. Natalie went to sleep to their cries and woke to their blood. Each had hitchhiked far into hell. Most were catatonic. “Beyond reason.” Natalie thought of herself and laughed. He hadn’t hurt Natalie like he’d hurt the others. Not for awhile.
Natalie stretched as close to the door as she could, but the handcuff bit further into her wrist. “Oh, and my BFF.” Natalie patted the ancient iron stove like a horse. “Bitch keeps me in place. It’s better than being over there.” Her gaze wandered back to the corner. “I didn’t like it there.”
“And what’s your problem?” Natalie asked the light bulb dancing above her. She didn’t like the shadows it made. Her stomach cramped. She’d been there long enough to sense when he watched her from the corners. She waited and listened. The air didn’t hint of anything; she was alone.
“Why doesn’t anyone miss me? They’d have found me by now if I mattered.” Natalie thought about it awhile. “All’s I know is I’ll change.” The words spit into the air and scattered as if the cellar didn’t believe her. “I’ll finish school. Get a sponsor. Stop the drugs. I’ll see my daughter more if momma will...at least I’m clean.”
Natalie rubbed the belly that hadn’t known life for two years. “Oxy’s too easy to get.” She heard her mother’s voice: “Excuses.”
Natalie couldn’t see Grace. She closed her eyes tight until they ached. “Are your eyes brown like mine? Shouldn’t have to ask that.” She wanted to fool herself that she’d been in the cellar too long, but Natalie hadn’t seen Grace since birth.
“My job.” Natalie searched for the journal. It rested a few feet away as if it had skipped up for a chat. Natalie grabbed for it, but it remained out of reach mocking her. She stretched out her foot until the journal relented to being caught.
The red felt cover was soft like one of those fluffy towels Natalie had used once in a fancy hotel. It didn’t betray the number of times Natalie had touched it in four months or thrown it. Natalie opened it and read the inscription: ‘For my Cora.’
“Twisted little bastard!” Natalie flinched and waited to be hit. After a few seconds, she scooted until her back hit the wall. “Oliver’s not here.”
“I’m the witness. Oliver does...what he does.” She pointed to the corner. “And I write it all down. Gotta be accurate. Every disgusting and sickening detail.” Natalie thought of the things she’d written in the journal - the kind of detail prosecutors dreamed of and victims’ families prayed would never be known. Horrifyingly accurate detail.
“You have to remember, Cora.” Natalie thought of what that would mean. “Freedom. Out of this goddamn coffin!”
“And for Cora?” The question slowly drifted like homesick smoke reluctant to escape a winter’s chimney. Natalie knew what he’d do to Cora, but she couldn’t focus on that. “I’m sorry, Cora, but you’ll survive like you always do.” Natalie thought a minute. “Stupid. Why can’t you see what’s right in front of you?”
Chapter 11: Forget
Cora’s hands vibrated to the rhythm of her throbbing head. In the dash through her room, she tripped over the tiny gardener’s shovel her cat had eyed earlier. “Another collection, Darcie?”
Cora pounced into her shiny, red bathroom and yanked open the medicine cabinet. She was surprised the force didn’t send it flying into the spa tub Mrs. Kiness had insisted on. Cora found the pill bottle and sighed.
Mrs. Kiness counted them and would deduce another headache. Cora
paused. “Pain gauge?” She slowly twisted her head from side to side testing for shooting pain and dizzies. Anything below a three could be decimated with a volley of chocolate. A five required a dark room and a nap, but six and above needed the knockout drugs. Cora hated the six and aboves. Not even a chocolate catapult could cure those brain oozing wallops. Cora slammed the medicine cabinet shut and studied her reflection. Her eyelids fluttered like a soft curtain seductively slipping out an open window.
“Zombie Cora.” Any first year resident would have called ‘time of death.’ She swallowed the knockout pills, grabbed a fluffy wash cloth she kept in the mini fridge beside her bed and dove under her red comforter for shelter. Cora pressed the icy cloth tight against her forehead. Her legs couldn’t stop fidgeting as the pain ripped through her stomach. “It’ll be alright. I’m okay. Everything’s fine. No one noticed. Johnston doesn’t count.” Cora winced and massaged her stomach. “Don’t think of him or anything else that’ll make me sick. No Other Morgans. Something else. Anything. The stables. Fresh manure. I need a different perfume. Catalog Darcie’s collections. Look up patchouli.”
****
After a few hours, Cora woke and groggily scanned her room for her cat who normally guarded her during migraines.
Darcie deliberated from the safety of her pink pillow next to the red sofa. Once Cora woke, the cat jumped up and pretzeled herself to reach the latest itch.
“I’m still among the living, Darcie.” Cora’s voice wavered from the drugs.
Darcie watched Cora for a few seconds until boredom took over. Satisfied with her sense of duty, the cat jumped up and out the French doors.
The pills tried to drag Cora back to a deep sleep, but she gazed at her bracelet. “Where did I get you?” Would the migraine torture relinquish the memories trapped within the crevices of her disintegrating brain? Sunlight attacked the alien mobile above Cora’s bed, and greens, yellows, and oranges splashed the bright white walls like a drunk expressionist. She focused her eyes on the alien for support. “Remember,” Cora said, as she and the alien harnessed their combined Jedi powers.