Blood Roots

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  “Who’s there?” she cried out. “I know someone’s there—who are you!”

  The feeling slid away and was gone.

  As if invisible chains had freed her, Olivia jumped up and plunged wildly on in the direction of the house. The driveway hadn’t seemed so long before, and though she was certain she’d come farther this time than last, every few feet of ground she covered seemed to stretch themselves out again at the end of the tunnel, keeping the house just as impossibly far away.

  At last the shadows seemed to lighten and lift, forming a hazy arc, and as she stepped through it, away from the canopy of oaks, she found herself facing the wide expanse of lawn, its details gray and fused now, shifting uneasily beneath the sprawling limbs of even more huge trees. Long black shadows crawled over the galleries, and the damp breeze fanned fingers of moss into her hair as she hurried toward the house. Raising her eyes to the windows above, Olivia thought she saw a movement on the third floor. There—just for a moment—it seemed as though a pair of shutters had moved—had closed—as if some unseen hand had drawn them shut from within.

  “Hello!” she cried. “Is anyone here?”

  Her voice came back to her, mocking and faint, as if some other lost soul was out there stranded in the mist … calling to her for help.

  “Hello?” she shouted again, but there was no answer, no further movement of any kind. As she reached the front veranda, she fell against the door and pounded on it with her fists. “Please! Is anyone home? I need your help!”

  Her cries seemed to hang in the air … strange, ghostly sounds. And then, abruptly, they were gone, as if the house had swallowed them whole.

  Olivia took hold of the latch. To her surprise it turned easily in her hand, and the door began to open.

  “Hello?” she whispered. “Is anyone here?”

  She took a cautious step forward, pausing just short of the threshold. The door creaked open several more feet, then came to rest against the wall with a final thud. For several seconds Olivia stood and stared and thought she must be imagining the pale glow that seemed to emanate from the air around her. But she wasn’t imagining it—and as her eyes widened in disbelief, she saw the softly lit hallway stretching out before her, and the lamps flickering on low tables along the walls.

  “My God … someone really does live here.”

  And now, as her eyes began to adjust, she could see the tall, wide doors, all of them closed, lining the long corridor, and how old and scarred the wooden floor was, and how the papered walls buckled with faded brown water stains.

  “Hello?” she whispered again. “Anyone? Please answer me …”

  She began to walk, glancing nervously toward the doors as she passed. The rooms were hidden from view, and yet she had distinct impressions of massive space and mustiness and heat clinging damply to high old ceilings. She didn’t even realize she was walking on tiptoe until she heard the soft creak of floorboards underfoot … didn’t realize she was holding her breath until a sudden wave of dizziness forced her to suck in some air. She’d never been in such a long hallway before—nor one that gave off such an unsettling aura, as though the lamps had been lit for a visitor who would never arrive. The feeling was so strong that she had to stop and get hold of herself, and that’s when she sensed again that she was being watched.

  Lifting her eyes slowly, Olivia let her gaze wander over the walls … the tables … the sputtering lamps …

  She heard the front door groaning shut … closing her in …

  With a gasp, she spun around, nearly screaming when she saw what was behind her.

  Two eyes shone in the half light, huge and dark and unsettlingly calm.

  They seemed to have no face.

  As the first rush of terror went over her, Olivia felt her breath drain out in a long, weakening sigh.

  It was only a portrait. Practically hidden in shadow, she could see it now as she went closer, the eyes gazing down at her serenely, yet somehow curious, as if wondering why she was there.

  It was the face of a young man.

  The most handsome face she had ever seen.

  He had beautiful eyes. Even in the dimness Olivia could see their soft, expressive depths reflecting the shimmering lamplight. His face was slender, his features almost delicate, the pale tan of his complexion heightened by his dark mane of hair, his mustache and beard. And yet, as she looked more closely, she recognized something tragic in his stare—tragic and somehow resigned—that disturbed her. She couldn’t take her eyes from his. She reached upward toward his face, then felt her hand freeze in midair.

  Somewhere, people were talking.

  Olivia listened for a moment, thinking she must have imagined it. The low murmur of voices seemed to be coming from farther down the hall, and as she debated whether or not to turn and flee, she realized she had no choice but to follow the sounds and try to find help. She moved as quietly as she could, glancing nervously at the surrounding shadows, half expecting other eyes to appear, fearful that they might be real this time. When she spotted a sliver of light between the double doors near the end of the passage, she put her ear to the crack and listened.

  “Did you see her? She’s dead, for God’s sake,” a voice said shakily. “The last thing I wanted was to have her frightened and upset. What on earth happened?”

  It was the voice of an old woman, weary and sad. And yet, with the very first word it spoke, Olivia felt an uncanny sense of knowing that cut through her like a knife.

  Grandmother.

  She didn’t know how she knew, but there wasn’t the slightest doubt in her mind. Her heart raced wildly, and as she pressed closer to the tiny opening, she heard a chair scraping the floor, and someone else began to talk.

  “I … I’m not sure. Helen found her in the yard early this morning. She must have fallen from the third-floor gallery.” A male voice this time, gentle and soft, but obviously in great distress.

  “Fallen?” the old woman echoed. “Or jumped?”

  “She had no reason to jump. She never realized what was happening to her.”

  “Hmmm … I can’t help but wonder about that.”

  “You know he’s very good at what he does. He always has been. They hardly even feel it. They simply sleep. There’s only a little weakness.” His voice faltered, then trailed away.

  “Are you all right? You seem so pale this evening.”

  “It’s nothing. I’m just thinking about Antoinette. How sorry I am.”

  “Well, need I remind everyone around here how very difficult it is finding young women like her? All the precautions we must take … and to have it end like this—”

  “I can’t believe it happened either. If only I could have done something.”

  “Oh, my dear, you know you couldn’t.”

  “If only I could have stopped it …” He sounded hopeless … empty. “Stopped everything. Somehow.”

  “You never can,” the old woman said softly. “No matter how much you want to.”

  There was something about their voices—their grim conversation—that filled Olivia with a strange mixture of sadness and fear. She was so intent on listening that she didn’t realize one of them had started toward her hiding place. Too late, she heard the footsteps approaching, and as she turned and fled back down the hall, the doors began to open.

  The groan of old hinges echoed down and down the corridor … lamplight flickered wildly up the walls as a cold draft swept along the passage …

  “She hated her so much she put a curse on her.”

  And a million terrors and uncertainties rushed through Olivia’s mind as she ran for the door—things that shouldn’t even matter now because she was already here and it was much too late for worrying—

  No, no, I can’t be caught like this, not like this, I’ve got to hide, but where—

  She could sense that someone had stepped out into the hallway just behind her.

  And as Olivia shook the front doorknob and found it locked, she keeled over
in a make-believe faint and lay motionless upon the dirty floor.

  3

  “WELL … I’LL BE …”

  Olivia heard a voice muttering right above her head as a body leaned heavily against her. It was all she could do to keep her eyes closed. She could smell herbs and cheap toilet water and tried not to cringe as a large hand pressed her forehead and felt for the pulse at her throat.

  “Of all the trouble,” the voice muttered again. Though the voice was deep, Olivia guessed it was a woman, and as she felt a pair of strong arms slide beneath her, she also heard the woman’s slow, sharp intake of breath.

  “Lord … have … mercy. Lord help us all …”

  The woman’s tone frightened Olivia. She wondered wildly if she’d cut herself when she’d fallen. She felt breath on her face and knew the woman’s eyes were just inches from her own. Then she sensed the woman pulling back again, though she was fairly certain she was still being watched.

  In a booming voice that seemed quite collected now, the woman called out, “Miss Rose! Some stranger’s done fainted out here in the hall!”

  Olivia lay there feigning unconsciousness, her heart racing in fear as she willed her face expressionless. She could hear other people approaching now from the opposite end of the corridor, but they came hesitantly, as though exercising great caution. Listening closely, she guessed there to be two of them, and wondered if they’d been the ones she’d eavesdropped on. From the dull, thudding sound that accompanied their footsteps, she decided that one of them was using a cane.

  “Who is that? What in God’s name is she doing here?” The old woman’s voice hovered right over Olivia, and it was hoarse with alarm. “How did she get in?”

  “My God … is she dead?” It was the other voice Olivia had heard behind the doors—the man’s voice with its soft, slow Southern accent—only now he sounded frightened.

  “No, she ain’t dead.” The woman with the deep voice spoke up, jostling Olivia roughly in her arms. “Just passed out, that’s all. The poor child’s rail thin, Miss Rose, just look at her. But what I wants to know is, who let her inside the house when—”

  “Don’t mind that now,” the old woman broke in anxiously. “Just get her out of here.”

  “To where? Where should I gets her out to?”

  “I don’t care—just do it. And for God’s sake, don’t let Skyler see her. Oh, how on earth could this have happened—”

  “She’s so beautiful,” the man whispered, and as his hand trailed across her cheek, Olivia tried not to react. His touch was so gentle … his skin startlingly cool.

  “Get away from her,” the old woman said, though not unkindly. “You’ve got to go back now—if she woke up—what a fine mess—”

  “But she is beautiful.” He spoke again, his voice as gentle as his touch. “We can’t just turn her out—you can see she needs to be taken care of—”

  “You do what Miss Rose says now, you hear?” The loud voice spoke sharply, and Olivia felt the smooth, tender hand slide away. “I’ll take care of her—just go on back now.”

  To her bewilderment, Olivia heard footsteps moving away again down the hall, followed by a long, uneasy silence. Not until the steps had completely faded did the old woman venture a whisper.

  “This frightens me, Yoly. What is she doing here?”

  “Don’t you worry now, Miss Rose, just leave everything to me. You just go on back and finish your supper now.”

  Olivia was trying so hard to lie still. Without any warning, she felt herself being lifted into a pair of burly arms as if she were no more than a baby and, after a short walk, deposited again onto a lumpy surface that smelled of mildew. She knew she couldn’t pretend any longer—slowly she opened her eyes and frowned, waiting for her surroundings to come into focus.

  “’Bout time,” the husky voice grumbled. The black woman was well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and raw-boned, her huge hands clasped together in the lap of her black dress and black apron. Nothing showed of her hair—instead, a black kerchief molded itself to the shape of her head and knotted back behind her thick neck. Her skin was so dark that her face seemed almost featureless, but as Olivia continued to stare at her, she noticed two faint pinpricks of light and realized with a start that the woman’s black eyes were staring straight back at her.

  “What you doin’ here, child? You got lots of explainin’ to do.”

  “I—” Olivia looked back at her helplessly.

  “Speak up now. What you doin’ here? What you doin’ out here in the hall?”

  “I’m … not sure.”

  “You not sure? What kind of answer’s that? Don’t you know where you’s supposed to be?”

  “I … got lost.” Olivia’s mind was racing, and she put a shaky hand up to her forehead.

  “You got lost?” The woman regarded her with an unblinking stare. “No one gets lost out this way. Where was you goin’?”

  “He robbed me,” Olivia mumbled. “I got out of the cab because I didn’t feel well … and the driver went off and left me here.”

  “Cab!” A look of surprise crossed the woman’s face. She seemed to consider Olivia’s answer for several seconds, then asked, “What you doin’ way out here in some cab? Did that cab driver bring you out here … for a reason?”

  “Could I please have some water?” Olivia looked away, unable to meet the woman’s piercing gaze. “I think I might be sick.”

  She could feel the woman’s eyes boring into the side of her head. She closed her eyes again.

  “You fainted, you know that? You remember what happened? You remember anything?”

  Olivia shook her head, and the black woman sighed impatiently.

  “I’ll get you your water. And you can rest yourself for a while. But then you gots to leave.”

  “Thank you,” Olivia managed to whisper. She waited to hear the door close, to hear the woman’s heavy tread fade away again down the hall.

  It hadn’t actually been a lie, Olivia argued to herself; she really did feel as if she could faint. Her stomach was hardened into a cold knot of fear, and as her eyes swept over the spacious, dimly lit room, she sat up and rubbed her arms and tried to stop shaking.

  If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought she was back in the nineteenth century—except that this furniture was tattered and threadbare, and the paper on the tea-colored walls hung in mildewed shreds. As she moved to the edge of the worn velvet sofa to get a better look, the room came together in puzzle pieces of faint light and deep shadow. She saw scratched antique tables, the chipped marble of the mantel, gouged wooden floors, and moth-eaten rugs. In one corner, a clock, covered with cobwebs, had stopped at a quarter past some long-ago midnight. She suspected that the tall doors where the black woman had gone out led back to the hallway, but on the opposite wall a line of tall French doors framed the night beyond, pale shafts of light trickling out through the streaked glass and onto a brick veranda. As her eyes continued their slow appraisal of the room, they came to rest again upon the fireplace mantel. There was a canvas hanging above it, and she got up slowly to take a better look.

  It was the same young man whose portrait she’d seen in the hallway—the same handsome face, the same melancholy eyes. Here, in the somewhat better light, she could see that they were of the deepest, deepest blue, almost black, like fathomless seas, and were so filled with emotion that she felt strangely hypnotized. There was such peace within them … such kindness … yet again such immense sorrow that her heart nearly ached to look at him.

  “Your water.”

  Jumping back, Olivia collapsed against the fire screen, her hand pressed to her heart. She hadn’t heard the black woman come back … hadn’t even heard the sound of the door.

  “You scared me,” she gasped, taking the glass, trying to control the quaking of her hands. “I didn’t know you were—”

  “You better tell me, child. And you better tell me the truth. What you doin’ here?”

  Olivia looke
d reluctantly into the woman’s eyes. Their points of light had sharpened onto her face, and she took a long, slow sip of water.

  “I’m looking for work.”

  “Work!” The eyes narrowed into slits. “You full of stories, you know that? I’m old and I’ve heard ’em all. So don’t you try to fool me now.”

  “I’m not fooling you,” Olivia said calmly, surprising herself at her control. “I really was looking for work.” She took another drink of water, her mind reeling, stalling for time. “They said in town you might need some help out here.”

  “Who said?”

  “I don’t know. Someone. At … at the bus station.” She floundered, but only for a second. “The cab driver told me.” She was proud of how confident she sounded now. She met the woman’s eyes bravely. “I’ve been asking whenever I stop in a new town. Someone on the bus told me about this place, and—”

  “What? What’d they tell you?”

  “Just that it was old. I like old houses, that’s all. I just wanted to see what it looked like. So when I got to the bus stop, I asked around about it, and that cab driver said maybe I could find work.”

  “What else he tell you about this place?”

  “Nothing. He didn’t tell me anything.”

  “Nothin’ ’bout the Devereauxs? He never said nothin’ ’bout the family?”

  “I didn’t know who lived here.” And it was amazing how easily it was all coming to her now, slipping right off her tongue, as if she’d really planned it like this after all. She lowered her glass, but her eyes remained on the woman’s face. “He didn’t say anything except maybe I could get a job. So he brought me out here—just so I could see the place—and I didn’t feel good, so I got out of the car. And then he drove off and left me.”