Belle Manor Haunting

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  Addison leaned back and folded her arms.

  “Oh...kay,” he said. “You’re not going to say anything more, are you?”

  “Not right now. If it means you don’t want to share information with me, I understand.”

  “How about we make a deal?”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “Give me a day to think about it, and then I’ll be in touch. I suppose it wouldn’t be a big deal if I let you peruse an old file, under my supervision, of course. In the meantime, if you stumble across anything, and I do mean anything, I want to know. All right?”

  If he’d known she had the evidence box, he hadn’t mentioned it. She assumed he did not and stood. “I have to go. What you’re asking is fair. I hope you decide to let me see the file. Thanks for the hot chocolate.”

  “Thank you for giving me a sliver of hope. It’s more than I’ve had in a long time.”

  “Can I ask a couple more questions before I go?”

  He nodded. “Shoot.”

  “Do you remember the address of the woman in the woods?”

  “I don’t see why it matters. It’s like I said, the place is gone, and even if it was still there, she wouldn’t be. She would have died by now.”

  “I’d still like to have it.”

  Briggs waved the waitress over and requested a pen. She pulled one out of her pocket and handed it to him. He scribbled an address on a napkin and offered it to Addison. “Might be a bit off on the exact number, but the street name’s right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What about your second question?”

  “What was her name?”

  He glanced out the window, tapping his memory. “I believe she said it was Joan. Yes, Joan is right. Joan Waterhouse.”

  The history of witches had piqued Addison’s interest from a young age. She’d even written papers about them in high school. The most famous Joan Waterhouse was the daughter of Agnes Waterhouse, a woman who had once gone by the name “Mother Waterhouse.” Agnes had marked her place in history as the most famous witch to have ever lived, and she was the first to be hung in England in 1566 at the ripened age of sixty-three. She hadn’t been burned, but death by hanging wasn’t much better.

  At Agnes’ trial, she stood accused of killing her husband as well as one of the villagers by way of witchcraft, and though she feigned innocence until the day of her death, she admitted she owned a white-spotted black cat named Satan, and claimed he was her familiar. Satan, the cat, did her bidding in the unfortunate circumstance someone ruffled her alleged witchy feathers. Her daughter, Joan, was eighteen years old at the time of her mother’s death. She stood accused of many of the same crimes, but Joan succeeded where her mother had failed and was found not guilty.

  The name could have been a coincidence, but given Briggs’ account of the psychic woman’s house existing one day and vanishing the next, Addison wanted to believe there was a sliver of hope a witch existed who was alive and well. Since learning of her supernatural abilities, she had never met anyone like herself before, apart from her grandmother. It excited and worried her at the same time. Not having anyone who fully understood who she was had caused her to feel alone and isolated at times. Sure, she had Luke, Lia, and Amara Jane, but there was still a void that needed to be filled and no support group to fill it.

  Sympathy was easy.

  So was understanding.

  Empathy?

  Not so much.

  Addison left Briggs and walked to the car. Sitting in the driver’s seat, she stared down at the napkin in contemplation.

  Briggs had made it clear Joan Waterhouse’s home no longer existed.

  But what if it did?

  Addison stared at the coordinates on the map displayed on her car’s screen. It didn’t seem right, causing her to wonder if she’d slipped up somehow. At present, she was surrounded by what seemed to be an endless field of garlic. She tapped on her GPS screen, which had frozen up less than half a mile from her destination point.

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “Don’t do this to me. Not now. Not when I’m so close.”

  The way she saw it, she had two options.

  The first was to abandon her quest altogether.

  The second was to find the location on her own.

  She’d come this far.

  It was worth it to trek a bit farther.

  Soon after, she came to a clearing, an area where the soil looked like it was being prepped to grow additional crop. There was nothing left to find. She let the car idle, leaned back in her seat, and sighed. She felt silly for thinking she’d find anything ... and defeated. The more digging she did, the more questions she had without answers. Since being contacted by Sara, the days had dragged on and on with no solution in sight. As much as she wanted to discover the truth, she missed the precious moments away from her family. She missed the time she hadn’t been able to have with her newborn daughter. Luke had been far more patient than she deserved, and Addison suspected part of his reasons were selfish. He hoped his support would result in a faster resolution.

  She didn’t blame him.

  Maybe they were both selfish for wanting their lives back.

  Addison didn’t care.

  She sat back up, and her eyes came to rest on what appeared to be a cottage behind an old farmhouse. It wasn’t what she imagined she’d find, but it was there, which was better than nothing.

  She drove to the farmhouse and got out of the car. The warm, late-summer air drifted across her face, and she breathed in the aromas of vanilla and spice. Someone was cooking. The farmhouse door opened, and a woman stepped out.

  Addison’s heart raced, thumping much faster than usual.

  She swallowed hard and stared back at the woman.

  Could it be?

  Was it possible?

  Was it her, Joan Waterhouse?

  The woman was younger than Briggs had suggested, and his visit had been decades earlier. If Joan was the daughter of Agnes Waterhouse, she would have been four hundred and seventy-three years old now.

  “Can I help you?” the woman asked.

  “I’m trying to locate a house that used to be around here in the early seventies.”

  “What did it look like?”

  “A shack, I guess?”

  “Hmm, I don’t know,” the woman said. “I’ve lived here fifteen years, and I’ve never seen one.”

  Addison pointed to the cottage behind the main house. “It may have been similar to what you have back there.”

  The woman looked to where Addison had pointed. “Oh, that’s not old. It’s an addition. I added it about five years ago so I could tend to my father before he passed away.”

  Addison nodded. “I see. You wouldn’t happen to be Joan Waterhouse, would you?”

  The woman shook her head. “My name’s Rosalee. What’s yours?”

  “Addison.”

  “Well, Addison, I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”

  “Do you know anyone around here who could? Someone who’s lived here for several decades?”

  Rosalee tapped her foot on the ground, thinking. “There’s a man named Horace Jenkins who owns a local produce stand nearby. He’s lived here all his life. He might be able to help.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Drive out of my place and chuck a right. He’s about two minutes up the road on the left.”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  Addison headed out of the driveway and turned toward town. A woman dressed in a long, dark, hooded cloak stepped into the street. Addison gripped the steering wheel and slammed her foot down on the brake pedal. The car screeched to a stop.

  Addison steadied her breath and grabbed the door handle. Before she could get the car door open, the woman vanished and reappeared in the seat next to Addison. The woman reached up and flicked the hood off her head, allowing her long, dark hair to cascade down her shoulders.

  She smiled and said, “Hello, Addison. I’ve looked forward to meet
ing you for a long time.”

  The woman was young, less than thirty, Addison guessed. Her skin was pale and white. Flawless. Still in shock, Addison fumbled over her words.

  “Are ... are you ... Joan Waterhouse?” Addison asked.

  “Of course, I am.”

  “And is your mother Agnes Waterhouse?”

  “Bright girl. You know your history.”

  “I know my witches,” Addison said.

  “Is that what I am ... a witch?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I’m a lot of things.”

  “It’s just, I didn’t expect you to be so—”

  “Young?”

  “Well, yes,” Addison said. “Briggs said you were much older. And, based on when you lived in history, you’re—”

  “People are funny creatures, you know. They see what they want to see, what they need to see when they need to see it. If Harry Briggs would have seen me as you see me now, he wouldn’t have taken me seriously. It’s an unfortunate truth, but it is one, nonetheless. Women aren’t judged the same as men, even now, even after all this time.”

  “I’m here about Sara Belle and Libby Carrington. I’m trying to find out what happened to them, and I need your help.”

  “Of course, you do. You want me to wrap the details of their deaths in a pretty bow and give you answers you’re tired of seeking because you yearn for your world to be perfect. You think you need it to be perfect to be happy.”

  “You’re wrong. It’s not true.”

  “I hope not. Put it out of your mind and make peace with it, because it won’t ever be. You made a choice to use your abilities, to use the gifts you’ve been given. That is your life now.”

  “I came here because I thought you could help me.”

  “You came here because you’re curious. You wanted to know if I was real, if someone outside of yourself exists in the same way and with the same abilities you do.”

  “Do you know what happened to Libby Carrington?” Addison asked.

  “In a manner of speaking. I know she’s trapped between the place she should be and the one in which she now rests.”

  “How can I help her? How can I help Sara Belle?”

  Joan placed a hand over Addison’s. Addison jerked it away.

  “What are you doing?” Addison asked.

  “Afraid of what might happen if we connect?” Joan shook her head and laughed. “Good. You should be.”

  Joan leaned back in the seat and rubbed her hands together. “You really do want to help them, don’t you? I’m not used to such honorable intentions when it comes to your ... well ... the women in your family.”

  “I do my best to help those trapped in this world in any way I can. Briggs had honorable intentions, and you told him where to find Libby’s car, but the car led nowhere, and then you disappeared. You could have given him more information, and yet you didn’t.”

  “I had my reasons. What he failed to mention to you is that he hated his boss. He wanted to be promoted to his position. His boss was on his way out, so solving the case would have given him that, but it’s not always best to have everything we want. Your agenda is twofold. You want all the lost souls who come into your life to find their way. You also want to protect your family, and yet you struggle with who you are and who you think you should be.”

  “Are you going to help me or not?”

  “Stubborn, aren’t you? This day is about much more than me helping you seek out the truth hidden around Belle Manor.”

  “Why is today so important?”

  Joan stared out the car window at a flock of birds flying overhead. “Do you feel you know yourself, Addison? Do you know what you are? Do you know your roots? Do you know from whence you came?”

  A sudden feeling of inadequacy washed over Addison. No matter the answer she gave, it wouldn’t be right. “I know enough for now.”

  “I’m sure you think so. The truth is, you know nothing.”

  Addison crossed her arms, resisting the urge to go on the defensive. “If I know nothing, why don’t you enlighten me?”

  Joan narrowed her eyes. “Sometimes the veil between truths and lies is safer to hide behind. Once revealed, you can never go back to the way it was before. It’s like opening a box and looking inside. You can’t undo what’s been done.”

  “I’d rather not spend my life hiding behind anything. I did that enough when my mother was alive.”

  Addison flashed to a younger time in her life when her mother refused to reveal her true identity.

  “Take a breath, Addison,” Joan said, “and then breathe out the pain you’re feeling right now.”

  “What would you know about it?”

  “I feel the weight you carry, the grudge you told yourself you’d shed years ago, but never did. You’re still angry with her. Whether wrong or right, she had her reasons for doing what she did.”

  “I loved my mother.”

  “And I loved mine. It doesn’t mean I approved of her actions—not all of them.”

  It felt like the conversation was flipping around in circles, going nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

  “Why else did you come looking for me today?” Joan asked.

  “You’re right. I wanted to know if someone existed who’s like me.”

  “Now that you know there is, do you feel better?”

  “I don’t know. Right now, I’m shaken up. I didn’t expect to find anything when I drove here today.”

  “There are certain truths it’s time you knew about yourself if you are to achieve your destiny.”

  “I’m not concerned about my destiny.”

  “Aren’t you? Why do you help them then—all those lost souls with unresolved issues in the earthly world? You have a choice. You choose to get involved.”

  Addison shrugged. “It seems like the right thing to do, and I like helping them, most of the time.”

  “Much of what is known about my family isn’t accurate. My mother was a shrewd woman, a woman most didn’t understand. What people don’t understand, they fear, and from that fear a false persona is born. For my mother, the persona became a label fixed to her chest, defining who she was, even though it wasn’t. Most of it was for show.”

  “How was it a show?” Addison asked. “Are you saying she didn’t do any of the things she was accused of doing?”

  “You know what a show is, don’t you? A production where one person tells themselves they’re the star, when in reality, they’re nothing of the kind.”

  Addison didn’t follow.

  There had been an abrupt shift in the conversation.

  “You’re leading up to something,” Addison said.

  Joan nodded. “Yes, I am. My mother was lynched, and I was spared, but I wasn’t the only one found innocent. My mother’s sister, Sybil, was found innocent as well.”

  Addison was unfamiliar with Sybil, a woman she’d never come across in any of her historical research.

  “I’ve never heard of her,” Addison said. “Who is she?’

  “My mother wasn’t the most famous necromancer to have ever lived. She behaved the way she did to get the attention from the one who was, and yet, you won’t find Sybil’s name in any history book. She made sure it was left out.”

  “Why?”

  “To protect herself, I suppose, and her legacy. To protect you, Addison.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “You are her legacy.”

  “I’m ... what?”

  “Sybil was your, well, very great-grandmother.”

  “Is she still alive?”

  “She exists, though she hasn’t been seen in some time. After my mother died, Sybil left the village. She took her daughters with her, but left her sons.”

  “Why haven’t I or anyone else ever heard of her until now? You could have found me years ago. Why haven’t we met until now?”

  “Like Sybil, I prefer to stay in the shadows, keeping an ear to the ground. I show myself when it’s importan
t. Today is more important than any other. Your grandmother died last year. I assume the book of enchantments is now in your possession.”

  Addison nodded. “I have it. Haven’t been able to make much sense of it so far, beyond reading through the verses and trying out a few chants.”

  “You have no idea how powerful it is.”

  “I’ve only just started using it.”

  “I know. I felt the energy in this world shift when you uttered your first words from the book. You may know what’s written in ink, but the ink is just the beginning. I’m here to tell you what else the book offers.”

  “I haven’t found anything else, and I’ve been through it a few times.”

  “I have something for you.”

  Joan slipped a hand inside the pocket of her cloak, pulling out a shiny, red stone. It was small, no bigger than a kernel of corn, and circular in shape. She placed it in Addison’s hand.

  Addison brought it closer to her face and inspected it. “What is this? A ruby?”

  “It’s a red diamond, one of the rarest gems in the world. Less than thirty are known to exist. Do you know what a red diamond symbolizes?”

  Addison shook her head.

  “Red diamonds are made of pure carbon,” Joan said. “They contain no impurities. They symbolize passion, power, and ritual, and most of all, the ability to be flexible in our form.”

  Addison thought of the red room at home. When Luke had asked what color she wanted it painted, she didn’t hesitate. She knew it had to be red.

  “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  “Take a closer look at the book you’ve been given, at the women on the cover. Look at the center of the cauldron, at its shape, and you’ll see where the stone is to be placed. Place it there, and then press your hand over it.”

  “What will happen when I do?”

  Joan cracked a smile. “You’ll see.”

  “Does this mean I’m a ... because you’re a ... a witch?”

  “Witch is a term I’ve never cared for much. We’re necromancers. We harness magic and use it in whatever way we choose. You and I share the same bloodline. We’re similar, but we’re not the same. You communicate with the spirits of those who have passed on. I see into the earth, connect with its energy, see its secrets.”