Reborn

by Lisa Collicutt

  It was a twist of fate the recent spate of murders in London’s Whitechapel and the name alone, Jack the Ripper, coincided in need for something else. I told myself it was possible for me to undertake a search for the suspect. But, I could not run the business alone and needed someone trustworthy to assist. Only after many pleading telegrams did Roderick reluctantly agree to leave his home for the shortest time and take the journey to England. With his keen eye for business, I quickly made him a partner in the vain hope it would distract him from his frustration and I did so enjoy the company of my closest companion. Roderick found it troublesome to settle, he preferred the less formal ways of Virginia, which bended easier with his relaxed Irish ways. Unlike London, his strange, sometimes frightening appearance was largely ignored in a new world of countless immigrants.

  His almost seven foot height intimidated most, including Albert, who refused to admit it and, was not weakened even by the sight of his cane. Forever the cynical joker, he decided to feign a leg injury taking too long to heal. The severity of his shuffle depending on whose company he found himself in, he played it beautifully and, fooling everyone.

  In the meantime, I followed the Ripper case closely, devouring every newspaper I could lay my hands on, staying in close contact with Albert.

  But it was proving very complicated as I had become far too ensconced in my business and social activities. Roderick thought me a snob, an upper class over-indulged so called English gentleman. I stood for everything he despised; his protest was to complain constantly about the weather and the formalities of the Victorian stiff upper class, and to speak Gaelic at every inappropriate moment.

  I reminded him constantly that my friends and associates were unimpressed and, due to their lack of understanding, did not take kindly to his using the language. Roderick’s response was to ignore me and continue to use it regardless.

  Albert put aside his distaste for Roderick to urge me, once and for all, not be so distracted by women and revelry. I was to be serious in my quest to take on the Leather Man.

  “All your stories of battles drawn and won, surely a lone figure like him will be easy pickings. That is, if you are the fighter you claim to be,” he said. Often mindful of Albert’s uncertainty, never sure if he thought me insane or just plain deluded, I reassured him of my intentions.

  It was time to take my leave as he had become slightly intoxicated and annoying, his belly full of steak and a head full of ale. Like so many of London’s newspaper men, his lifestyle consisted of a walk between his office and the closest Inn. The excuse? He would pick up on the idle chatter circulating. Somewhere in there could be a snippet of news that turned into a story or two.

  Jack the Ripper. The Whitechapel murderer began his killing spree early in April of this year and picked the perfect location. London’s east-end had become swollen with the impoverished. Living conditions were abominable. With my own eyes, I had seen rats in the gutters where raw sewage ran with velocity. In less than fifty years, the entire area had disintegrated, crime was rife, robbery being most commonplace, with roughly distilled gin consumed like water. The deprivation brought an alarming increase in prostitution and the current murders only added to the area being labeled as ‘riddled with vice and danger.’ Few outsiders ventured there. There were rumors circulating that men of high social standing and, members of royalty, did slip unobtrusively in and out of Whitechapel for a quick rendezvous with a woman of dubious means. For me, prostitutes were to be avoided at all costs, but my sympathies were with the victims, who did not deserve to be killed in such a brutal fashion.

  My first chore would be to contact Roderick by telegram at the office, though I knew what his response would be. One of, ‘Not that dreaded Ripper fellow again, leave me out of it.’

  eyond the village rooftops, they stared back at me. Cold, iron likenesses of ravens, strewn across the dormer peaks of the Ravenwyck Inn—a place straight from nightmares.

  I hated Deadwich. Dark nights terrified me.

  An icy chill swept across my shoulders. I shuddered and dropped my bags onto the porch floor. Mom and Dad had unloaded the rest of my belongings from their SUV and were now headed up the steps.

  “Mom, please don’t make me stay here.”

  She walked right on by, ignoring my pleading gaze.

  “Brooke, I’m not having this discussion with you again this morning.”

  “But, Mom—”

  She stopped in front of the red screen door of her sister’s cape house and looked at me sternly. “You’ve protested this move all summer, and you almost had me convinced until last night. Getting picked up by the police for drinking at sixteen is the last straw.”

  “But Luke had the beer, not me.”

  “It’s one thing after another with you, Brooke. Your father and I think spending a year away from the city will be good for you.” Her voice lowered. “Now shush, or you’ll hurt Aunt Rachel and Uncle Jim’s feelings.”

  In a last desperate plea for help, I switched my focus to Dad. If he’d heard our conversation, he didn’t let on.

  It was no use. I was a gazillion miles north of Boston, about to begin my junior year with my cousin and not my friends. Worst of all, the nightmares would return as they always did when I slept in Deadwich.

  The scent of cinnamon and freshly brewed coffee did nothing to alter my dark mood as the front door flew open. Aunt Rachel greeted me with open arms. I gave her a fake smile and let her hug me. When she let go, Uncle Jim scooped me up in his arms. After the greetings, we followed Aunt Rachel into the yellow painted kitchen. The whole scene was too cheerful for me, so I headed back outside and slumped into the porch swing.

  As I answered a text beep, a sharp caw made me drop my cell phone into my lap. I jerked my head toward the disturbance. An enormous black bird circled above before landing in the large oak in the front yard. With a fringe of ruffled feathers around its neck, and glossy plumage tinged blue, it was the biggest crow I’d ever seen. It tilted its head, eyeing me with curiosity before leaping skyward with a whoosh. One black, downy feather zigzagged through the air and made its way under the porch roof, coming close to tickling the end of my nose on its way to my lap. A twinge of fear opened a rift deep inside me, accompanying the gloom.

  I tried shaking off the grim feeling by scrolling through pictures I had taken of my friends the previous night. There was Luke with his arm around me, holding that beer—the beer I blamed my fate on.

  The sound of crunching gravel caught my attention. I wiped away a tear and looked up to see a girl I barely recognized coming up the walkway.

  “Hi, Brooke,” she said with a smile in her voice.

  My cousin Sammy had dyed her hair since I’d seen her last. She’d gone from a natural wavy brunette like me, to unnaturally straight and Gwen Stefani-blonde, with a new set of straight bangs resting on her eyelids. I was impressed.

  I forced a smile. “Hey, Sammy. How’s it going?”

  Her blue gaze widened as it fell to my fingers, where I absentmindedly twirled the feather. “What is that?”

  I held it out and gave a sharp laugh. “A welcome gift from a crow.”

  “Eww, crows are bad luck. Throw it away.”

  How could my luck get any worse? Just in case, I tossed the feather over the railing.

  Her scrunched up expression morphed into an impish grin. “So, I hear you got caught drinking last night and ended up in jail.”

  “Hmph. I didn’t think news traveled that fast in the sticks.”

  She ignored my insult and kept her grin, waiting for the dirt.

  I glanced at the lush canopy of leaves above me, feeling silly I’d allowed myself to be frightened by a crow, and sat up from my slouch. “It was just a beer, and Luke was holding it, not me. The cops took us to the station when we wouldn’t tell them where we got it, and my parents came shortly after. Now I’m stuck here for the rest of my life.”

  “It won’t be so bad.” Sammy leaned back on her elbows against the rail
ing. “Deadwich is a happening place, and there are hardly any cops around. Oh, and there’s a party next weekend on Skull Island.” As she said it, she looked thoughtfully down the street toward the ocean.

  “Skull Island? Are you kidding me?” Didn’t sound like the kind of place I wanted to hang out, especially when there was a sale on designer clothing back in Boston that weekend. “Is it shaped like a skull or something?” I asked not out of curiosity, but for lack of something else to say.

  “No. There’s a legend that says two lovers were murdered out there, like a hundred years or more ago and—”

  “Murdered?” Great, a nature party with murdered lovers. Not my idea of a fun time.

  “Yeah, and some people believe their skeletons are still out there somewhere. Their bodies were never found, but like I said, it was ages ago.”

  “That’s twisted. It’s a daytime party right?” Please say yes.

  “Nope. It’s an all-nighter, actually.”

  “And you’re allowed to go?” Curiosity widened my gaze behind the hair that blew across my face. I flicked it back and glared at my cousin.

  “Not exactly. I tell Mom I’m staying overnight at Robyn’s—you remember my friend, Robyn?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Anyway, I say I’m staying there and she says she’s staying here.” Her grin widened, exposing perfect white teeth and no braces.

  Okay, enough of Skull Island. I had to change the subject. “So, how hard is working at the Inn?”

  As I said it, a chill grabbed the back of my neck. The after-school job, which Sammy had gotten me, was something else I wasn’t looking forward to.

  “It’s not hard at all; we just make beds and fold laundry. When we’re finished, we can leave.”

  I stretched and got up. “I’m going for a walk.” I’d slept through most of the hour-long drive up the coast and needed to wake myself up. I walked past Sammy and down the stairs, looking back over my shoulder. “Coming?”

  Sammy darted to my side.

  With no destination in mind, I needed to clear my head and went where my feet took me. As we walked, we caught up on the past year. Before I knew it, we had turned a couple of corners and had come to a stop. It was then I realized where we were, and that perhaps my subconscious had a secret agenda.

  The Ravenwyck Inn loomed before us, looking like something from a horror movie.

  “It still looks haunted,” I whispered.

  “You’ll get used to it. I did.”

  The century old, dark green building stood three stories high, up a short incline from the road. On the peaks of the dormers, each raven looked the same: wings spread, their tips arching downward like their heads. It was as if they were the eyes of the inn, forever watching the grounds.

  “No way can I work inside of that creepy old building.” I pictured long dark hallways and secret rooms and lots and lots of ghosts. I’d even had a nightmare or two, starring the haunted-looking mansion.

  “Oh come on, Brooke. You’re not, like, scared are you?”

  “Of course not,” I lied. I was terrified of the place.

  “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Maggie.”

  “Who’s Maggie?”

  In a scary storytelling voice Sammy said, “She’s the Mistress of the Manor.” Then she laughed.

  I couldn’t find the humor in it.

  Sammy led the way and I followed. Once on the other side of the thick shrubs that lined the property’s perimeter, the place didn’t seem as foreboding. Vehicles filled the parking lot. They had to belong to someone—right? The scent from the pink and white wild rosebushes, which hedged the landscape, mixed with the odor of freshly cut grass from somewhere else in the village, created a calming effect. Probably how Maggie the murderess lured in her victims.

  With slow and guarded steps, I approached the iron-hinged front door, ready to turn and run at any moment. Sammy peeked over her shoulder at me. I gave her a fake smile and gestured her onward. She opened the door and walked right in. I followed.

  My mood didn’t change once inside the creepy old place. If I was to imagine a haunted hotel, this is how it would look. Decorated with dark paneling and heavy chandeliers laced with cobwebs, it held as much charm as movie versions of Dracula’s castle.

  Off to the right, a wide doorway opened to a large main room where clusters of people sat engaged in a medley of conversations. Their voices held little comfort. We continued on past a huge, dark wood staircase, which dominated the foyer and wound its way upward.

  “Samantha.”

  The ancient voice crept under my skin and seeped into every cell, chilling me to the core. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned in the direction it had come from. For crying out loud, it’s just a little old lady. So why did I feel like I should run and never turn back?

  “Hi Maggie.” Sammy smiled, showing off her dimples.

  Alone, leaning heavily on a cane for support, Maggie hobbled toward us, fixing her ice-blue stare on me.

  “I wanted you to meet my cousin, Brooke,” Sammy said as casually as if Maggie was her own grandmother.

  “Ah yes. How thoughtful of you, Samantha.”

  Maggie seemed pleasant enough, until she spoke again. “I’ve been waiting for you, Brooke.”

  Although her lips hadn’t moved, her sharp words pierced my brain like frigid icicles. Unable to look away, I stared at her, wide eyed, while her teeth grew to razor-edged points and an inky blackness swallowed the pale blue of her irises.

  As quickly as the apparition had paralyzed me, it released me. Once again, I looked upon the face of the feeble old woman Sammy had just introduced me to, with the knowledge that her last remark had solely been meant for me to hear.

  I grabbed both sides of my head, trying to rub away the sharp, pulsing pains that lingered there.

  “Brooke, are you okay?” Sammy asked through clenched teeth, while jabbing her elbow into my arm.

  I lowered my hands and cleared away all thoughts of the dreadful image. My mind was playing tricks on me—it had to be. This sweet, ancient-looking woman posed no threat and neither did her inn. I had to get a grip. Soon I’d be working here.

  “Brooke?”

  Finally able to blink, I lowered my eyes from Maggie’s. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I got up too early today, I guess.” I put on a genuine smile. “Hi, Maggie. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Maybe you should sit down dear,” Maggie said. “You’re a ghastly shade of ecru.”

  With her cane, she pointed toward a red velvet settee at one end of the foyer. I sat uncomfortably on its edge, clutching my clammy hands together. Maggie and Sammy seated themselves in chairs opposite me. The piercing pains in my head mellowed slightly.

  A pale-skinned girl, who looked to be about twelve or thirteen, appeared from behind the staircase. With her face bent toward the floor, she shuffled across the foyer toward us. Her raven hair, a stark contrast against her pale complexion, had been gathered into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck. Despite the layers of clothing she wore and lack of make-up, she was sort of pretty in a peculiar way. She came to a stop beside Maggie’s chair, her hands clasped in front of her. She stared at me oddly with dark, lifeless eyes. The chill melted, and I grew uncomfortably warm from the inside out and lowered my gaze to the timeworn patterns in the area rug.

  “Beth dear, will you be so kind and bring us drinks?”

  The shy girl obeyed Maggie’s order, disappearing behind the staircase.

  Fresh paint over old decay hung in the air. I found it difficult to breathe as Sammy and Maggie conversed about the mundane happenings of the village.

  Within minutes, Beth came back carrying a tray with three glasses of sweet tea, complete with lemon slices and a plate of homemade sugar cookies sprinkled with colored sugar. She set the tray on an oak side table and smiled at me before leaving us.

  “So, Brooke dear, you must find it a big change moving from the city to our quaint village.” Maggie smiled, pushing back the abun
dance of wrinkles like an accordion, the new arrangement of deep lines framing her mouth.

  “It wasn’t my idea, that’s for sure.” I regretted my sarcasm immediately and changed my tone before I continued, not wanting to sound like an ungrateful brat. “But I’m sure I’ll get used to it. And thanks for giving me a job here.”

  Maggie’s pleasantries seemed to mask something more sinister—my imagination again. She made every effort to make me feel comfortable, so why didn’t I? There was something odd about her, and I was sure Sammy didn’t detect it or she would have said something to me.

  I kept up the grateful façade throughout our conversation, eating a cookie and drinking the sweet tea. When I just about couldn’t take any more of the creepy old woman and her creepy inn, Beth came back to collect Maggie for a phone call.

  With the young girl’s help, Maggie stood. “I’ll look forward to seeing you girls later this week. Goodbye until then.” She turned and hobbled away with Beth at her side.

  Once they were out of sight, I stood up so fast I got a head rush. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “Geez, Brooke, relax.”

  “I am relaxed.”

  I bolted toward the open door as fast as I could without running, pushing past a couple of the inn’s patrons. I didn’t stop to wait for Sammy until I was halfway down the walkway, where I allowed myself to stop and breathe in the fresh sea air and wild roses.

  “Are you alright? You’re acting weird,” Sammy asked when she caught up.

  After some deep breaths, I faced her. “No, I’m not all right. That woman’s a total creep and so is her sidekick.”

  Sammy burst into a laugh. “I’m sorry, Brooke, but when did you get so paranoid? You used to be the tough one.”

  If she only knew.

  “Come on. I’m suddenly hungry,” I said, making any excuse to get out of there.

  The lack of street lighting in Deadwich had me reflecting on the light outside my bedroom window as we walked back. It had illuminated my nights and lightened my dreams ever since I could remember. I would miss it most. In approximately nine hours, Deadwich would be in total darkness, and my new bedroom was in the back of Aunt Rachel’s house, gifting me with a million-dollar view of the Ravenwyck’s dormer peaks. How lucky for me.