The Girl in the Scarlet Chair: A New Adult and Clean Romance with Supernatural Elements (City of Affection - Book 1)

by Janice Tremayne

  The Girl

  in the

  Scarlet Chair

  City of Affection—Book 1

  JANICE TREMAYNE

  Copyright © 2019 Janice Tremayne

  www.janicetremayne.com

  author@janicetremayne.com

  First published in Australia in 2019

  Cover illustration and design by Momir Borocki (www.99designs.com.au)

  Pro/99designs

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Edited by AJC Publishing—Australia

  Published by Millport Press

  Printed and bound by Kindle Direct Publishing—KDP

  Digital ISBN: 978-0-646-80634-1

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-646-81056-0

  DEDICATION

  For my darling wife, Erma, and my children, Anthea, Christian, Ernest and Matteo.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  1

  The chair of desire

  Pg. 1

  2

  The picture of love

  Pg. 22

  3

  Long-distance relationship

  Pg. 38

  4

  The City of Affection

  Pg. 58

  5

  Day of the dead

  Pg. 80

  6

  The sampaguita

  Pg. 101

  7

  The love premonition

  Pg. 123

  8

  One more day

  Pg. 138

  9

  The pellegrina

  Pg. 154

  10

  Within the walls

  Pg. 164

  11

  The cleansing

  Pg. 182

  12

  Love plus nothing

  Pg. 202

  About the author

  Pg. 211

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a novel about suspense and paranormal romance is one of the most significant projects I have ever committed to completing. It was different from the genre I had written in before (which was job hunting and self-help business blogs), and it presented many challenges.

  I want to acknowledge my wife, Erma, for her patience and tolerance for the many hours I spent in coffee shops writing my first draft.

  I want to thank my book-cover designer, Momir Borocki, for designing a stunning visual cover, and my editor, AJ Collins, for polishing up my work.

  Although I am the author of this book, I am not a singular entity. I recognise that it was the kindness of the people around me that motivated me to complete it. I want to thank God for the gift and pleasure of writing. Nobody knows why we become writers. It’s a passion drawn from our inner self and a desire to tell beautiful stories that keep us going.

  1 the chair of desire

  Clarisse Garcia was sitting in the garden on an old wooden bench at the back of her mother’s house where she had grown up. She was sipping iced tea—it was a humid day and typical for this time of year. She was enjoying the scent of the white flowers coming into bloom. Her mother, Marlita, lived in a town two hours’ drive from the sprawling city of Manila. Now she enjoyed spending her days off work there; it was her favourite place to reflect and calm down. The garden and the scent brought back a moment from her childhood when she was questioning her mother about something that she didn’t know back then would change her life.

  “Mother, why is this room always locked?”

  “It’s not a room for little girls, my dear. Best not go inside.”

  “What’s in the room?” Clarisse asked.

  “Just an old scarlet chair and a family altar … to remember your great-grandmother, Elena.”

  “What about the smell that comes from the room?”

  “Oh, that’s nothing … just rotting flowers.”

  “But the smell is there for days …” She was an inquisitive little girl.

  “It’s OK, I will clean the room today,” Marlita said.

  “What about the noise, Mother? Is there someone in there?”

  “There is no one in there, my dear … it’s the birds playing on the tin roof—nothing to worry about.”

  Marlita looked Clarisse in the eye, holding her shoulders firmly, and said, “Promise me you will never go in that room … promise me!”

  Clarisse had just heard that her fiancé of five years was playing around. He was seen at a bar not far from his place of work with the same girl on more than one occasion. The source of her information was reliable because they worked in the same company. Her partner made a habit of going missing every Monday night without fail. It was his work commitments, a catch-up day for essential deadlines on a project, that kept him away until late—that is what he made her believe until she wised up.

  Clarisse was no stranger to his infidelity; it had happened before. But he was always able to come up with an alibi, accusing her that she was paranoid—too possessive and demanding. She was unlucky in love and desperate to keep her man and maintain the perfect relationship. But was having an ideal relationship expecting too much from her fiancé?

  “The majority of relationships are not one hundred per cent perfect, and they have their tribulations,” a good friend once told her.

  But Clarisse was not buying into this argument because she expected loyalty and trust. She gave all her heart and dedication to him, trying hard to make it work, expecting the same in return.

  Angry in the heat of the moment, she decided to take a stand and not in the typical sense—it was more mysterious. She had a plan to break the rules that her family had lived by for one hundred years. Her friends described it as superstition that had grown out of proportion, become exaggerated over time—a frightening tale of consequences that started with her great-grandmother, Elena Enrique, one hundred and fifty years ago. Her mother, Marlita Garcia, was born believing this superstition and nurtured it while she was growing up.

  Many people described Clarisse as the embodiment of Elena. If there was any truth in the theory that genes can skip one or two generations, then one had to look no further than Clarisse. Elena was a beautiful woman with striking looks that drove men to extreme lengths to court her. She could have any man in the town, and they even came from neighbouring areas to try their luck. Back in her days, courting a woman required showering them with gifts and serenading them. Marlita often recalled tales of men singing outside Elena’s house with a trio of guitar players that went well into the night. Elena was always immaculately well-presented and modelled the best clothes. Her black hair was perfectly tied back into a bun and accentuated with a white flower—like a Spanish dancer. She had brilliant white teeth and an infectious smile that lit up her face; you could see it from a mile away. When she walked down the street, an aura surrounded her, and people noticed her presence. Despite all her beauty, she was a humble and kind person—always helping others in need. The townspeople loved her more for her values and her care for others, rather than her looks.

  Clarisse recalled growing up in a home that was loving, caring and full of warmth. Her mother was pedantic and always fussed over her every need. Being an only child meant she got all the attention she needed and the best of everything. There was nothing too much for Marlita when it came to making Claris
se happy. However, her mother would stop short of spoiling her altogether, and an imaginary line existed between having and having too much. Clarisse had to do her regular household chores and help out wherever she could. But living under the shadow of the family superstition had its challenges. Everyone in the street knew about it and so did her friends at school. Some took it seriously while others baulked at it. Every family in the Philippines had a superstition, or more than one—it was their culture to lay claim to something spiritual and mysterious.

  As a child, she was not allowed to enter the room with the scarlet chair or meddle with the altar dedicated to their dead relatives. That was left for once a year, on the Day of the Dead, when they paid homage to those that had passed on to another life. Her mother had warned her not to sit in the scarlet chair and that a dark spirit circled it day and night, ready to capture your soul and whisk you away to a horrible, dark place. As a ten-year-old child, it was a scary and chilling rendition of a superstition that carried on to her late teens.

  No one understood the power of the scarlet chair, other than it was shrouded in an old story that Marlita clung onto in memory of Elena’s tale. Was it a negative, unhappy chair that had embodied the energy in retribution for an unforgivable act a century ago? An object cannot hold the spirit of someone who has passed away, even though they may not have moved on to the other side. However, an object can keep the energy of that person for a long time—if that energy can be fed and nurtured with superstition carried by generations. The power can be positive, negative or in between, or evolve into something more sinister. Marlita never explained how bad the energy was, only that it had a negative side and was best left alone. She never wanted anyone to interfere with the scarlet chair for fear of raising its awareness or consciousness.

  Clarisse became rebellious when she was sixteen years of age. It all happened very quickly, and she went from being a considerate, gentle and obedient girl to one that questioned everything. Marlita was philosophical and believed she was becoming aware of her environment. Her stubbornness led to a situation that her mother would regret later. Clarisse used the energy of the chair to obtain a premonition when she was a teenager, and it nearly destroyed her life. It happened during a time of immense love and heartache, and the chair was her only escape. Clarisse understood it was dangerous and Marlita always made sure she was aware of its sinister side. A chair that could foretell future relationships may sound like a fanciful idea to some, but in her family, it was a well-known secret.

  The scarlet chair was a chesterfield and an impressive design—perfect stitching and immaculate leather that had stood the test of time. It was pristine, polished and in excellent condition, considering its age. It was situated in the middle of a dark, timber-panelled room at the back of the house. At the end of the chair was a rendered brick wall that was hastily built. There were no windows and only picture frames on the console table of her grandmother, grandfather, Elena and close relatives. Next to the console table was a small, round table large enough to support a wooden cross, a tribute to Saint Michael the Great. The room was also a shrine to the dead with an altar where Marlita would often pray to the departed loved ones.

  The dark room was never meant to be the main attraction, or accessible to guests. It was tucked away for privacy—a place of prayer. Marlita always kept the room meticulously clean and made sure the chair was free from dust. She liked to pick flowers from her garden, and a white flower known as the jasmine sambac by locals. The strong jasmine fragrance it produced penetrated into the hallway outside the room, such was the strength of its scent.

  It was an odd place to have such a beautiful chair, and even more peculiar that it was the only piece of furniture in the room besides the console table. Was it a monument to the dead, or did it carry some other religious significance? The chair was lonely, in the dark, and it must have been angry. However, the room was never intended to be a dark place of mystery; it evolved that way over a long time as the superstition took hold. Nobody sat on the chair out of fear they would suffer its wrath. Clarisse’s mother always reminded her it was out of bounds, and she reinforced it as Clarisse got older. She was led to believe that sitting in the chair would bring dire consequences and unleash negative energy with evil connotations.

  Clarisse understood the dark energy in the chair had the power to access your desire and foresee the outcome of any relationship. It could feel your mental anguish and pain—your feelings, frustration, anxiety and intensity—and take hold of it for pleasure. But it could also torment you if you sat on it for the wrong reasons.

  Clarisse had had enough of her partner’s infidelity, and it was messing with her head. She was desperate to find out the truth, and this was her only way—to seek a premonition from the chair. No private detectives to spy on her fiancé, no confessions and no assumptions—just the chair of desire.

  Clarisse planned to sit on the chair and take it as it came, such was the desperation to find out about her fiancé’s infidelity. She peeked into her mother’s room to see if she was asleep and then tiptoed her way to the back of the house. Marlita was sensitive to noise, and a light sleeper, which meant that she had to be extra careful not to prompt her. The sound of clatter in the kitchen or a squeaky door was enough to wake her.

  The room with the scarlet chair was locked, and Clarisse went back to find the key in the kitchen. Although Marlita would hide the key in different places to confuse her, she was predictable, and it could only be in one of three locations. She found the key under the sugar jar in the pantry and silently made her way back to the dark room. She put the key in the lock and jiggled it a few times. The lock was the same one Elena used— it’s remarkable that it still worked due to its age. After a few twists, she managed to open the squeaky door halfway. A gush of humid air washed over her body, causing her skin to manifest goose bumps all over her arms and legs—and a slight chill came over her body which gave rise to an instantaneous shiver. The change in room temperature was surreal, considering it was a typical warm and humid night.

  She briskly walked over to the Edwardian lampshade—the only source of light in the room—and turned it on with an old-style chord that required her to tug it once. The light accentuated the scarlet colour of the chair as she stood gazing at its presence in the middle of the room. She could feel it waiting for her, and it was thirsty for her tales of lust and desire. The negative energy radiating from the chair absorbed her, begging for her to come forward and share her pain. It preyed on bad relationships, adultery and infidelity between lovers. However, it could not deny true love and was powerless without your conceptions of lust and desire. The chair had to be used in the right way and not for retribution, or it would drain your mind and leave you in an exhausted state.

  She removed her slippers and walked barefoot to the chair—hesitantly at first but not frightened. She caressed the deep grain of the smooth leather in circular motions until she built up the strength to take a seat—moving slowly and adjusting herself until she was sitting upright with both hands firmly placed on the armrests. Clarisse was staring at the door, waiting anxiously, because she knew what came next. The chair would connect with her inner self and link into her pain and desire. Her pulse was pumping and racing, and she could feel the thumping of her heartbeat. A chill shook her body, and her hands were cold as ice. Her ears developed a tingling sensation, and the luscious soft curls in her hair became straight.

  Although it was a warm night, she was shivering, and her clothing offered no relief. Her slender legs started to tremble at the knees. Clarisse wanted to go back to her room, but it was too late for that—the power of the chair captured her.

  Apparitions of her partner drinking and flirting with a younger woman raced across her mind. They were holding hands, caressing and kissing voluptuously in a hotel room. She recognised the hotel, and it had a sleazy reputation for short stays—the type frequented by couples looking for a cheap place to have a two-hour fling.

  Clarisse didn
’t like it, but it’s what she had come to see. The chair was taking satisfaction from her pain and increased the intensity of the revelation. Then, another hotel room used by couples was projected in front of her. It was the hotel near her fiancé’s workplace on the east side of Manila—and there he was with a different woman. They were naked in a bed of sin, coupling. Now she understood the truth—but at what expense to her frailty? Her fiancé’s infidelity was more significant than she anticipated. It wasn’t just one woman, but a parade of them at his beck and call.

  The chair was not done with her yet, and the room started spinning while the lamp flickered on and off consistently in a rhythmic sequence. She was dizzy and disorientated, holding her head with both hands. The room spun faster, and the light became more intense. Green, blue, red and yellow—flicker, flicker, flicker. The chair started vibrating side to side. She tried desperately to get off the chair, but something was holding her down and pushing on her chest.

  “Let me go … let me go!” she yelled profusely. “I’m done with you!”

  Clarisse wanted to scream and scream again—and disconnect herself from the uncanny thoughts of the chair. But the chair would have none of it, and like many times before, it held her captive. The outline of an older woman’s hand with a gold ring on the index finger appeared from the armrest in a curling motion. It pushed onto her torso and held her down from the stomach with force. It was a cold hand, uncomfortable and with a granular feel. An image of Elena as a young woman flickered across her mind—pointing at her and shaking her head with disappointment. Elena was trying to convey a warning about her relationship. It was a sign of her pending separation from her fiancé, and it was being foretold.