by Apryl Baker
The Ghost Files
Volume 4 - Part 2
By Apryl Baker
The Ghost Files
Copyright © 2017 by Apryl Baker.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: February 2017
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-008-4
ISBN-10: 1-64034-008-4
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For Janna
Table of Contents
Prelude
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
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Prelude
November 3, 1862
The soft glow of evening light bathes my face while the sweet smell of homemade apple pie draws me to the front door of the dilapidated farmhouse. A lone barn stands in the distance with horses grazing in the paddock. The wood floors are smooth, a stark contrast to the peeling wallpaper and cracked ceilings. The stairwell on the right is well worn, a lifetime of feet having traveled it.
It’s cold, the shadows flickering across the walls as I move deeper into the house. I glance behind me, the fading light of the sun echoing in the deepening darkness of the house. I don’t want to be in here, but I can’t make myself turn around and leave. There is nowhere else to go.
The kitchen is at the very back of the house, its entrance an archway. An older woman stands at the kitchen counter, her back to me as she kneads dough. Two apple pies rest on another counter. The rich, sweet smell of cinnamon calls out to my empty stomach. It has been ages since we feasted on such treats.
“Don’t just stand there, Abagail. Come help me clean up this mess.”
My grandmother sounds impatient, and I falter, not used to hearing her snap at me so. “Girl, I got no time for your foolishness. Now get in here and start cleaning!”
The irritation in the older woman’s voice lights a fire under me, and I move to the sink. Steaming hot water waits in a cracked bowl. I start to fill it with the various dishes, surreptitiously looking around. A soup pot simmers on the old coal and wood stove, the heady scent of roasting lamb wafting up to tease my senses. It is my favorite, but surely we can’t afford such an extravagance. We need all the sheep for the wool we can sell. Gran hands me an apron to put on over my simple dress, much like the one she herself wears.
“The Reverend came by today.”
The Reverend? A sense of dread settles heavily in my heart. “What did he want?”
“He’s looking for a wife.”
A wife. Panic chokes me and I can’t breathe, but I keep washing dishes.
“He knows we don’t have much to offer him but the farm, but he’s willing to marry you despite that.”
The dish I’m holding falls from my numb hands, splintering when it hits the hard wood planks. Terror rises up, washing out every other sound or emotion. He wants to marry me?
The crash makes Gran whirl around, shock bleeding to anger on her face. “You foolish girl. Look what you have done! We don’t have many plates left after having to sell them off.”
“I am sorry.”
My grandmother shakes her head. “Pick this mess up, and then go get yourself cleaned up. The Reverend will be here for supper.”
Tonight? He is coming tonight? Those thoughts swirl through my mind. I bend and start collecting the pieces of glass. My first thought is to reason with Gran, but I dismiss the idea. The old woman has worked hard to keep us safe, fed, and with a roof over our heads. She’s getting on in years, in her sixties. To her, this offer of marriage would be a gift from God.
But God has nothing to do with Reverend Aaron Whitmore.
The man is evil. Full of rage and hatred.
My friend, Kaitlin, refused to marry him. He declared she was possessed by demons. Her parents, being the pious people they are, agreed to take her to the church to let the good Reverend cleanse her of the Devil’s grip. They left her with him for a week.
When she came home, she wasn’t the same. The once vibrant girl, full of life and joy, became timid, scared of her own shadow. She shrank into herself. The Reverend withdrew his offer of marriage, claiming he couldn’t knowingly enter a union with someone who had been unclean.
Kaitlin finally confessed to me what happened during her week with the Reverend. He tied her up, he beat her, he raped her. All to cleanse the evil from her body. He tortured her because she refused to marry him.
What man of God would take his anger out on such an innocent girl?
I begged Kaitlin to tell her parents, but she refused. Reverend Whitmore had told her he’d deny it all and tell them she hadn’t been purified. That he’d take her back to the church and invite her father along to witness the cleansing. It would be a true cleansing. The type of torture they’d put so many women through during the witch trials.
I stand, depositing the glass in the bin used to collect what little trash we accumulated. I’d dispose of it later, when it got a little fuller. Without a word to my grandmother, I turn and leave the kitchen. When I enter my room at the top of the stairs, I close the door and lean against it.
I try to fight through the chaos of my own thoughts, to make some sense of what Gran has just told me. She’s handing me over to the Devil himself, and there isn’t anything I can do or say to convince her otherwise. Reverend Whitmore has them all fooled. Including my grandmother.
Kaitlin had been right, I realize. Her parents wouldn’t have believed her. They are deeply religious and put all their trust and faith in a man who is supposed to represent the will of God.
The will of God. A hollow laugh follows the thought. I can’t believe it is God’s will to put me into the hands of someone like Reverend Whitmore. How could it be God’s will to make us so poor we almost starved to death last winter? God has no part of this.
I grew up in the church, listening to Gran preach about faith. Despite her ironclad belief in God, sometimes I have questions. I don’t understand how God can be such a kind and forgiving entity, but make us suffer so much. Tests, Gran calls all our misfortune. A test of strength and determination on our part.
I’m not strong enough to withstand the test of Reverend Whitmore. My fear pulses on such a deep level, it’s almost a physical pain when I think about life with him.
The curtains flutter in the cooling breeze. The letter opener on the desk beneath it holds my attention. Thoughts I never thought I’d have start to confuse me, but I’m terrified of doing nothing and letting God’s will, as Gran would say, decide my fate.
Last winter I found a book in the attic when I went searching for extra blankets. An old leather-bound journal. A journal I’d read late at night, burning candles we couldn’t afford to replace, but I’d done it anyway. It described the life of a woman who’d had everything she’d ever desired, and that journal held all her secrets.
I often wonder if they are the ravings of a madwoman or the true life and times of a brilliant, independent woman. The things she’d done to achieve her goals make me shudder to think about, but in this moment, the idea of being given to the Reverend terrifies me just a little more.
Without hesitation, I go to my closet and dig the book out from where I’d hidden it. I know what I’m about to do, what it might cost me in the end, but anything has to be better than becoming the property of Reverend Whitmore. Even death would be better than that.
I smile triumphantly when I pull the book from behind a stack of old linens on the top shelf. My hands tremble, but I refuse to think about the consequences of my actions. It simply could be the ravings of a madwoman, so best not to let myself worry until there’s a reason to worry. Still, I lock the door and light the oil lamp before opening the book to the summoning ritual.
The design is intricate, and I study it before attempting to draw it on a piece of paper. After several test runs, I nod. I can draw it. Closing my eyes, I send up a silent prayer asking for forgiveness for what I’m about to do. I’m honestly not sure if there is a God, but just in case, I want Him to understand I have no choice left to me. Trusting in prayer isn’t going to fix this dilemma. I won’t be sold off to someone that even the Devil himself would hide from.
I pick up the letter opener and stand, moving to the center of the room. My hand quivers when I open my left palm, the letter opener clutched in my right. I hesitate, my grandmother’s voice booming a warning in my mind, and I know I should listen to that voice. What I’m about to do…I will probably never even begin to understand what it’s going to cost me.
I’m not prepared when the blade comes down and slices across my palm. A whimper escapes my lips at the sharp sting of the fresh wound. I’d cut deep, the blood pooling immediately. I drop to my knees, doing all I can to not panic, to convince myself I’m not being foolish. I’m fighting to live. My finger dips into the blood, and I begin to draw.
When the drawing is complete, I stand and utter the words that will bring the demon to me.
“Conjuro te mihi facere iussus dimittere te donec. Venite ad me!”
Which basically calls a demon to do my bidding until I release it.
Nothing happens. Why didn’t it work? Maybe the book really is the writings of an old crazy woman. Disappointment weighs heavily on my heart. What am I to do now?
I fall to the floor, the wetness of tears beginning to stream down my face. I can’t marry him. I can’t.
A hand smooths down my hair and I fall back, startled. My mouth opens in a silent O when I see the man standing over me. I’m shocked, and a tiny flutter starts in my stomach while I drink in every detail of him. He’s beautiful. Long, dark hair, strong cheekbones, and his eyes are amber, like the wolves that constantly prowl the farm. I feel an instant attraction to him, and the depth and intensity of it frightens me perhaps more so than my fear of the good Reverend.
“Come, child.” He holds out his hand, and I take it. Heat, hotter than any flame I’ve ever beheld, blazes like a wildfire across my skin at his simple touch. His smile is kind when he helps me to my feet then walks me to my bed, where I sit. I can’t stop staring at him. He’s…he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
“I didn’t think it worked,” I murmur, twisting my hands.
“It didn’t.” He cups my face, and I can’t break my gaze from him.
“But…”
“Shhh,” he hushes me. “I heard you and came to see if I may be of assistance. What is it you require that you would summon a demon?”
“Are you…a…”
“A demon?”
I nod, my voice abandoning me when his fingers stroke my cheek.
“Yes, I am. Does that frighten you?”
I shake my head. Not if he can save me from the Reverend.
“It should.”
A quiver of fear runs down my spine. The ice in his eyes belies the warmth of his voice. I begin to understand the mistake I made in calling out to something as evil, or perhaps even more so than the Reverend. What have I done?
“Tell me why you need the services of a demon, girl. My patience grows weary.”
“I do not wish to marry a man my grandmother has chosen for me.”
A laugh rumbles out of him, and it is every bit as beautiful as he. But deadly. There is a dark bite to it. When he steps away from me, I can breathe for the first time since he entered my room.
“It cannot be so bad that you’d trade your soul to escape it.”
My voice is strong, despite the terror beginning to overtake me. I’d read that journal carefully. “It’s not just any man I am escaping. The Reverend Whitmore is evil.”
His eyes go distant, and they swirl with a thousand thoughts all at once. When he blinks, for only a moment, those amber orbs have gone black, a ring of yellow where the iris should be. If I had blinked, I would have missed it.
“Ah, I know Reverend Aaron Whitmore. He and I shall see each other soon enough.”
There is a finality in his voice. Evil knows evil.
“I won’t marry him.” I make my resolve heard in my voice. I will escape the man, no matter what I must do to accomplish it.
The demon cocks his head. “You could flee now, child. Why ask me for help?”
“Because I don’t want to just flee.” I wring my hands again. “I don’t want to ever be in this position again. I want to be strong, powerful, a force no man will ever take advantage of.”
“You seek power and position.” He strokes his chin, regarding me like one would a horse they are considering purchasing. “And if I told you I could give you all this, make your dreams a reality, what would you give me for it?”
“Anything.”
The smile that lights up his face is full of dark promises. “And if I said the price was your soul? An eternity of belonging to me?”
“If you can give me everything I want, then, yes, you can have my soul.”
He squats in front of me, his amber eyes piercing. “I do have plans for you, my beautiful child. Plans that will thwart a plot against me.”
“I don’t understand.”
He smiles. “You don’t need to, child. All you have to do is serve me, and I will give you the world. Do you agree? Your soul in exchange for everything you could ever want?”
“I do.” There is no hesitation this time. The words are spoken with a clarity I didn’t know I possessed. This is my only way out. At least the only way out I can see.
A parchment appears in his hand, a quill pen in the other, which I take. He nods to my still bleeding palm, and I dip the pen in the blood, signing my name to the bottom of the contract. I don’t read it. There’s no need.
“Very, very good, my child. I shall take you to a friend in New Orleans who will become your family. She’ll teach you all the ways of witchcraft, and she’ll introduce you to society. You will have everything you desire.”
Joy surges in my heart as I gaze up at my savior.
“Now, child. You need a new name. What shall we call you?”
The sweetest smile tips my lips. “Tara.”
Chapter One
~Mattie~
Today is Meg’s funeral.
I slip into my black flats and adjust the simple black dress I’m wearing. The severe bun I’ve put my dark hair up in is one Meg taught me. My breath catches as a new wave of grief smashes into me. I still can’t believe she’s gone. There are no tears, only a staggering pain in my heart. I hated her the tiniest bit because she lied to me, but I loved her. She was my best friend, and now she’s dead.
Because of me.
Mattie Louise Hathaway. The harbinger of bad luck. Me in a nutshell.
My foster sister, Mary Cross, knocks on the door and breezes in. Her long blonde hair is pulled back, making her look even paler against the dark gray woolen dress she keeps tugging at. She hates the thing because it’s itchy, but she said it is the only dress she has
suitable for a funeral. Mary didn’t really know Meg, but she knows me and Dan, so she’s going to support us. It’s what sisters do, she said. I’m grateful every day for her. Blood sisters we may not be, but she is my sister in every way that counts. We chose each other, and that bond can sometimes be even stronger than blood.
“Dan’s on his way.” She sits in my desk chair, her eyes zeroing in on me. “You ready for this?”
Is anyone ever ready to say goodbye to someone they love? “No, but we’ll get through it.”
Mary fusses with her hair while I make a point of staring down at my shoes. We’re both somber today. I’ve never been to a funeral, not even my mom’s. She’d been buried while I was still in the hospital recovering from her attack on me. I’m not sure what to expect, other than what I’ve seen on TV. Those are always somber affairs. So I guess we’re at least in the right frame of mind.
I haven’t talked to Mary about her run-in with Deleriel yet. I didn’t get back here until late last night because I’d been visiting with the grandparents the last few days. I need to speak to her soon, though. We need to get out in front of this before Deleriel decides to make a move. He’s a fallen angel who eats the souls of little children, and he’s got his heart set on taking Mary back to hell with him. So not gonna happen.
I’m still vexed she didn’t tell me about it. I had to hear about it from Silas, a demon who claims to be my great something-or-other grandfather. His last visit dropped the proverbial ton of bricks into my lap with all his secrets, secrets involving me that I haven’t come to terms with yet. Silas terrifies me to begin with, but if everything he told me is true, I’m going to need his help with Deleriel. Not something I’m looking forward to.
We are both startled by a horn outside. Dan’s here. I get up and follow Mary out of the house. We pause on the porch and look at the empty yard beside ours. The Burnette house stands next to us like a giant black shadow, ready to exhale its sorrow any moment.