by Sherry Soule
Jillian fluffed her short golden hair with a slim hand. “Enjoy. I’ll drop the girls off. Don’t drink too much, honey.”
Dad chuckled and landed a peck on Jillian’s cheek. Then he walked toward three men standing near Sheriff Boyd’s police cruiser.
Ariana and I climbed into the backseat, and Jillian slid into the driver seat. As she drove out of the lot, the bizarre incident at church still lurked in the dark edges of my mind. So the wraith had super creepy eyes. No reason to freak out…Wait, was that a pang of familiarity in my gut?
No, I’d only imagined a resemblance—or, at least, I would have if my intuition hadn’t suddenly told me otherwise. And I didn’t need my gut feeling to tell me something was terribly wrong. Not when I recalled the shadows swarming near her and Shadow Man materializing in my bedroom.
Yep, that’s bad. Very, very bad.
But I didn’t want to dwell on it, not when hunky, mysterious guys made appearances at church. I figured I would later; right now it was easier to focus on something else. Something normal, which certainly didn’t include stressing about the shadows or the eerie wraith. Or shadowy demons that made my scarred arm throb just from a glance.
My mind drifted back to Trent, though my thoughts didn’t linger on his face. No, they recalled the bulging biceps beneath his tight shirt and his long legs. My curiosity regarding the new guy quashed any lingering anxiety over the morning’s strange events.
Jillian turned right on Oak Street toward Ariana’s house. She hummed along to the radio.
“So what’s his deal? Tell me everything,” I asked, keeping my voice low
She bent her head. “You haven’t heard the juicy gossip? My aunt told me his family used to live here. He’s yummy, for sure. Trent’s dad sent him to a boarding school in Switzerland or something after his mother died. Three weeks ago, they returned to Whispering Pines.”
“Does he go to our school? How old is he?”
“Dunno what school he’ll be at. He’s gotta be at least seventeen,” she said.
“Geez, he’s sooo tall and pretty.”
Ariana stared at me, then shrugged, as if shaking off bad feelings. “Heard the guy’s a rebel. So I won’t help you stalk him.”
A spark of excitement coursed through my veins. Those eyes, those lips. Sheesh, bad enough the shadows are creeping me out—now this supercute guy I don’t even know is messing with my emotions too.
“Not that I’m above stalking, but bad boys aren’t my type.” A nagging sensation tickled my senses. The wraith’s strange blue eyes. The bubble of unease swelled inside me again until I worried my mind would explode. If his mother was dead, then was she the lady sitting by him? My stomach twisted. I lowered the window to let the fresh air hit me in the face like a cold splash of water. “Uh, Ari, about his mother—”
“His house is haunted.”
I whipped my head around. “Say what?”
Ariana lifted a pale brow. “Yeah. It’s practically an urban legend.”
I looked out the window again while I collected my tangled thoughts. My gaze stayed glued on the passing traffic. “Fill me in.”
“Get this...his house is Ravenhurst Manor.”
“I’ve heard the rumors about that place.” My forehead wrinkled as I shifted to meet her eyes. “Isn’t that the same creepy mansion where those kids disappeared during that college hazing?”
“Yep. Awful things always happen there. The mansion used to be a home for disturbed teens in the 1950s. And remember that kid, Jacob Proctor, who disappeared on the property? Oh!—and two years ago, the police found this wacko attempting to break into it. He was all bloody and mangled. He said a black mist attacked him.” Ariana scratched her nose and said quietly, “People say Ravenhurst killed Trent’s mother too. Trapped her soul within its walls.”
What she’d said made me quiver. “Those are stupid old stories. Wouldn’t that place be condemned or something, if it was true? A house could be haunted but not evil. Right?”
“How the heck should I know? But I wouldn’t live there.”
“Do you think Trent’s heard the stories? About Ravenhurst, I mean.”
“He might’ve, but he didn’t actually grow up here.” She touched my arm. “I think you’re right, he’s probably a stuck up private school jerk.”
“Maybe not…he’s different. When I looked into his eyes, my insides went all jittery. Know what I mean?”
She cracked an amused grin. “Uh-oh. You got it bad, girl.”
“Nooo. Shut up.” I stared at my hands that lay in my lap and mumbled, “I suppose some girls might think he’s hot.” A big sigh escaped my lips. “Alright, he’s a honey but—”
“Fine. Don’t listen to me—”
“What are you two whispering about?” Jillian’s voice rose above the radio.
We giggled and refused to answer. Ariana and I had been friends since the fifth grade. Our ancestors were among the original settlers who founded Whispering Pines. But even with the founding families as part of our lineage, Ari and I didn’t quite blend in. Ariana had lost her wealthy parents in an accident, so now she was basically an orphan, which made her different enough to have been rejected by the popular kids. And people…well, they just thought I was weird.
After dropping Ari off, Jillian took a different route home. We drove through the affluent neighborhoods on Pine Street and Acorn Avenue, past mansions built in the style of the grand Victorian era. The estates had curving driveways, high gates, and spacious lawns. I loved, this area with its aesthetic beauty and exquisite designs. The personalities of the buildings and the charming structures spoke to the budding architect lurking inside me. It was said there were more Victorian homes in Whispering Pines and Alameda, based on California’s population, than anywhere else in the country. The styles varied from Eastlake cottage, Queen Anne, to Gothic Revival, that were characterized by steeply pitched roofs, pointed arch windows, hoodmolds over the windows, gingerbread trim along the eaves and gable edges, and the high dormers. The town hadn’t changed much, since many of the houses were built more than a hundred years ago. Over the years, many people moved to Whispering Pines to raise families and to escape the density of San Francisco and Oakland, mostly charmed by the antiquated architecture. The stuff I loved.
Although Whispering Pines appeared serene among the lush landscape, like other coastal towns, twilight would signal the churning fog to ominously surround the town. Neighborhoods would be bathed in an eerie mist when nightfall’s dark veil fell upon the earth. In Whispering Pines, people locked their doors at night and kept their children inside. They didn’t talk about the fog hovering over the streets. It was as if the community realized long ago the divider between our world and the supernatural realm was gossamer thin. Night was a time when ancient magick purred seductively to anyone who dared to listen. From an early age, I’d heard the rumors about the town curse. To others, the rumors were urban legend. To me, reality. Because I saw what others only gossiped about.
Blocks from home, Jillian stopped the car. I knew where we were. On our right stood an unusual mansion, its perimeters barricaded with a high wrought-iron gate. Crickets sang and dragonflies buzzed the entrance. Grass grew wild and tall in the yard, sprouting through the cracks in the cement path leading to the portico. The monstrous Gothic mansion was vast and rambling and wilting. It consumed the sky and blotted out the weak sun. Harsh seasons had torn shingles off the roof. Windows were randomly boarded shut. Tall, thorny weeds grew rampant and towering trees threatened to overtake, overwhelm, and engulf the grounds. Wind rustling between the oaks whispered of an ageless fear. Shrouded in shadows, nocturnal things slithered through the grass like snakes. A crooked No Trespassing sign hung from the newel post.
A prickling sensation glided over my body then settled in my stomach. Ground fog swirled and transformed, rising high, forming into a distinct shape in front of me. An apparition with bleak sapphire eyes. The wraith from church floated closer.
Oh c
rap, oh crap, oh crap.
Jillian twisted in her seat and stared out the passenger-side window at the house. “Ravenhurst.” she said more to herself than to me. Then an odd note of urgency entered her voice. “Ohhh, oh no. It can’t be.”
I cast a glance at Jillian. Her fingers clutched the steering wheel until they turned white. Her eyes narrowed and glowed like a fire replenishing itself. The eyes of a huntress.
I looked back at the wraith, then at Jillian again. Does she see it too?
My stomach did frightened flips. A wintry sense of dread hit me. Rising anxiety made my breathing shallow. I raised my sleeve and the uneven, raised skin on my arm was warm to the touch. My gut twisted on the lump of fear anchoring me to the seat. Again, a strange sense of familiarity stole over me.
The wraith soared next to the car door. She smiled. Pale and emaciated, her eyes conveying pain, apathy, sorrow. Her transparent grey hand sliced through the metal door and clutched my arm. An arctic chill surged through me, and the warmth of my scar turned to ice. The world became fuzzy, distant, like I was descending into an endless, dark chasm. When I regained my sense of balance, I stood inside a dimly lit house, everything around me tinted like an old black and white movie. A door swung open before me. Floral wallpaper covered the walls and a vase of wilted roses sat on the dresser. Soft light streamed through the lace curtains that covered the stained-glass windows. As I stepped near the bed, the stench of sulfur hit my nostrils. Fragments of shadows shifted on the walls. A movement caught at the corner of my eye. I froze. A person stood near the bed. His back was to me, but I recognized the opaque physique, smoky limbs, and hairless head.
My hands twisted together. My lips held back a scream.
Shadow Man’s muscles tensed. His sharp fingernails, like shards of glass, raked the side of the wall. The wallpaper hung in long, shredded strips. He turned, and I saw his yellow eyes were flames of hellfire. His voice, low, menacing, said, “Yes! Yes, freedom from the pain. Take your life. Join me.”
“For his life,” a woman said. She stood on the chair in the middle of the room. She wore a lacy wedding gown, her dark hair voluminous against the dress’s lightweight. She positioned a noose over her head. “You must vow to spare him in exchange for my soul.”
Shadow Man tapped a nail on his pointy black chin. He smiled, revealing a mouth full of spiky teeth. “Hmm, a reasonable swap, Claire. I agree.”
The woman tightened the rope that hung suspended from the chandelier. She stepped off the chair, kicking it over. A scream strangled in her eyes. She clawed at her throat. The chandelier quivered from her weight. The base separated from the ceiling. With a loud crack, the twisted mass of glass and iron plummeted to the floor. The woman fell too. The light fixture pinned her legs beneath its weight. She struggled to rise. Fear darkened her eyes. But she couldn’t free her legs from the plaster and the bulk of heavy chandelier lying over them.
Shadow Man jumped on top of her chest, straddling her. He put his hands around her throat. With his fingers, he put pressure on her larynx. The capillaries burst under her skin, flecking her eyes with red. She fought. Hard. Tried to loosen the stranglehold. No good. His strength seemed impenetrable. He squeezed until her hands fell to her sides, and she moved no more. Blood trickled from one side of her mouth.
Shadow Man parted her lips with a long nail. He lowered his head, putting his mouth close to hers. His forked tongue licked her cheek. He closed his eyes. To my complete horror, he puckered his cheeks and began to suck, extracting her soul from the corpse. A gossamer substance flowed into his mouth…
The world went all swirly again, and I was back in the car, the wraith still next to me. She released my arm. The vision had been vivid and tangible, and it took me several moments to get a hold of myself. My blurry eyes found the wraith. I knew the truth. She’d been murdered. Her soul sucked out.
“You are the solution, Shiloh.” Her voice was hardly more than a disturbance in the air. “Use your gifts, or the darkness will come for you.”
I glanced at Jillian. Her gaze was still fixated on something outside my window. I opened my mouth to speak, but the expression of hatred twisting Jillian’s features stopped me cold. Her face changed in an instant. A wry smile touched her lips, which appeared painted, suspended over skin. She shimmered like an illusion, her expression both shrewd and ominous. Altered, as though her disguise had been removed, yet her flawless beauty flickered beneath. Her onyx aura thundered, rolling off her flesh in icy, anthracite waves. She could not be the same woman who’d raised me. She could not be my mother.
Since my muddled suicide attempt—when I’d almost died—I could see auras. Echoes of souls, which revealed a person or demon’s true nature, bound in colors that held meanings.
Dizziness assaulted me. “Mom,” I whispered.
She said nothing. Just remained quiet and pensive, oddly grim. An azure mist of ancient magick swarmed her body, her eyes blackening like pieces of coal. Shocked, I shrank against the car door. I knew she was a witch—duh—I’d read all the grimoires, those archaic books of magick, my aunt Lauren had given me, so I knew Jillian had inherited power too, but she wouldn’t talk about it. Ever.
“Jillian?” My voice squeaked. “You can’t stop in the middle of the street.”
The moment passed and she blinked, appearing normal and lovely once more. The azure cloud dissolved. Her gaze, thick with darkness, became soft brown, like an old forest in the rain.
Did I imagine the change in her face, in her eyes? Now that I gave it more thought, Jillian’s aura had been covered in chartreuse swirling colors, more so than ever before. What did it mean?
“Fine.” She shifted the sedan into drive, and we shot forward.
The churning panic faded once we turned the corner; however, my confusing emotions increased, reminding me of what had happened before we’d left for church. And reminded me of the fact that I needed more protection. Paranormals didn’t usually enter my house, mostly because I practiced several Native American customs my grandmother had taught me, like burning sage and using a turtle shell rattle to ward off evil spirits. Of course, I’d felt silly at first, but hell, I’d try anything once. I’d gone from room to room, reciting an incantation of protection, calling on the four elements—Wind, Earth, Fire, and Water—to keep evil from invading my home.
Apparently, my self-protection plan wasn’t working so great. Shadows had found a way to crack those psychic defenses. Hellish little shapeshifters. Shadow Man (Soul Eater?) was fierce, deadly, and dangerous. Together those evil entities would be unstoppable. Obviously, my life was in serious danger.
I needed something stronger than sunlight, sage, and turtle rattles to protect me.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jillian turned on Mayflower Avenue and guided the car toward home. I stared out the dirty windshield at a fog so thick it kept our town in isolation, obscured from the real world outside of Whispering Pines. Like Gotham City, a perpetual dark place filled with evil. We passed a cemetery, and the cries of tormented souls softly hissed through the curling mist. Even though we were considered a small town, the area had five cemeteries. The graveyards were so heavily used that funerals were sometimes held at night. Hunching my shoulders, I slumped in my seat. Times like this, I desperately needed somebody to confide in. Someone to hold my hand and tell me everything would be fine. I peeked at Jillian, tempted to force her to talk to me.
Give it up. Not gonna happen, Shiloh.
Sometimes I wondered what would happen if I told someone about the scary things I saw. Mentioned I was afraid of the dark. Well, with good reason. Still…
My fingers traced the jagged red scar on my arm, trying to understand what my gut was telling me. Not sure if it was shouting to keep my secrets intact or let them have a voice. On the upside, spilling my secrets might help me accept that I was different. Okay, weird. I could stop sleeping with a light on. I’d take risks and stop stressing over shadows. Go out on a regular date—at night—with a boy.
But I don’t think I know how to be normal anymore.
Besides, who would believe me? I’d been safeguarding my secrets forever, and I didn’t know how to live another way. I wanted to be more like Jillian. She wasn’t afraid of anything.
Jillian turned on the radio, switching stations until she found an old country song. We drove home without speaking. For most of my life, my relationship with my mother had been tense. She hardly spoke to me, forever quiet and reserved. Keeping me at arm’s length. As a child, it had left me dazed and shattered, like the victim of a car wreck.
Looking at Jillian’s dazzling features was like staring at the sun too long. Jillian was blond, with a pale, elfin face and hazel eyes that changed colors with her mood. She reminded me of an expensive porcelain doll placed on a high shelf. A beautiful, unattainable object you couldn’t touch, only gaze upon with longing.
If anyone had bothered to notice me, they would only see a scared fifteen-year-old girl with eyes of sable ringed by kohl liner and black hair that fell to her waist. They wouldn’t see someone struggling to remain sane. Only an empty space where a real girl used to live.
Back home, I went straight to my room. I hesitated in the doorway. Narrowed my gaze and searched the darkest places for any sign of movement or evil.
Nothing unordinary. Nothing scary waiting for me.
The first thing I did was change the light bulbs. With the lights on, my gaze took in the cluttered space; the black-painted wall behind my bed that was covered with random poems, song lyrics, and cutouts from magazines of models and fashion; the iron-frame bed with a pink comforter that matched the curtains; and the IKEA dresser and desk in neutral pine. My space. My room. I yawned and plopped sideways on the bed. My swinging heel hit something solid. The trunk.