by HR Mason
As the woman ran, she cried, “Nothing hidden ever stays. It all ends with you.”
When Aubrey woke the next morning, her pillow was soaked with tears. A pearl necklace and a freshly cut rose were lying on top of the family Bible. Neither had been there when she’d fallen asleep.
17
Aubrey tentatively touched the rose. It was still wet with dew. The floral smell lingered in the room, cloying in its sweetness. She wondered if the flower was a figment of her imagination. She pressed her thumb against the thorn on the stem, and the sharp edge punctured her skin. Several drops of scarlet blood dripped onto her pillowcase. She shoved her thumb into her mouth, and the bitter taste of salt made her stomach flip.
The rose was real. But what did that mean? Who had put it there?
She sat up in bed and grabbed the pearl necklace, running her hands across the beads. The jewelry appeared to be quite old, and the size and luster of the pearls told her it was valuable. Neither item had been there when she’d gone to sleep, leaving Aubrey with only one conclusion—someone else had been in the house.
Aubrey hopped out of bed and dressed quickly. She was going to put an end to the madness, once and for all. She was tired of being afraid and confused. She needed answers, and the best place to find them was in the attic. After all, that was where she’d found the Bible. She had a feeling there were more secrets waiting for her if she could only be brave enough to search for them.
Spectre followed Aubrey as she climbed the attic stairs. She needed to get up there quickly, before she changed her mind; if she gave her plan too much thought, she’d talk herself out of it. Rather than listen to her fear, she pushed it aside, sprinting to the top of the stairs and flipping on the light switch. The morning sun filtered through the dirty attic windows. Aubrey glanced around the crowded room, trying to decide where to begin her search.
Her heart pounded. She feared what she might find, and yet she had to look. Taking a deep breath, she walked quickly across the room and flung open the doors of one of the large wardrobes. She gasped when she saw the closet was stuffed with fancy lace and silk ball gowns.
She fingered the delicate fabric, marveling at the fact that the dresses were at least a hundred years old. Other than being dusty, they were in perfect condition. She opened the wardrobe next to the first one and discovered more of the same. The styles of the gowns were different, and she estimated them to be even older than the others.
Breathing a little more easily, she turned her attention to the next tall wardrobe, expecting to find more clothing. Instead, she found a stack of large framed paintings standing on end. She counted them, noting seven in all. Curious, she grabbed the first painting and pulled it out of the wardrobe. The piece of art was tall, reaching nearly to her waist when she placed it on the floor.
She crouched down and took a closer look. The painting had clearly been done by a skilled artist. It was amazingly realistic, almost like a photograph.
Aubrey didn’t recognize the couple in the portrait. The woman was young and unsmiling. She had an austere countenance, and her jet-black hair was slicked back in a tight bun. She might have been beautiful if she hadn’t looked so stern.
The man was about the same age. His scowling face stared at Aubrey from inside the frame. He had thick chestnut waves and sapphire eyes. He was quite handsome, but the grim look on his face was disconcerting. She had never seen such a frightening pair, and the sight of them gave her chills.
She leaned the portrait against the wall and grabbed the next one from the wardrobe. She gasped as she took a closer look. A stunning, dark-haired man sat in an ornately carved, finely upholstered armchair. His dark eyes glared menacingly at her. The evil look on the man’s handsome face sent shivers down her spine. It was a face she’d never forget. He was the man from the nightmare she had on the plane.
Aubrey’s hands flew to her throat. She could feel the man’s spindly fingers wrapped around her neck, squeezing until there was no breath left. She could almost feel the heat from his hands as he tried to suffocate her.
The woman in the portrait wore a royal blue satin and lace gown. Her flowing chestnut curls framed a sad, yet lovely face that was identical to Aubrey’s. The woman’s tiny left hand rested on the man’s broad shoulder, the sapphire ring glittering on her finger.
It was the face that haunted her dreams, the same woman she’d seen twice in the attic window. She didn’t know who the woman was, but Aubrey had felt her die. And the man in the portrait was the one who killed her.
Aubrey glanced through the remaining paintings. They all featured beautiful young women standing next to austere-looking men. Most of the portraits had a plain background, but one had been painted in front of the rose garden in the backyard. Despite the beauty of the blooming roses growing wildly behind them, the young couple’s faces told a story of deep-seated sadness.
Another portrait grabbed her attention, featuring a lovely woman with golden curls. The artist had somehow caught her mid-laugh. Aubrey could almost hear the sound. The woman was lovely, but what Aubrey noticed first was the pearl necklace adorning her throat. It was the same piece of jewelry that was lying next to her bed that morning.
She needed to know more about the people in the portraits. She had to learn their stories in order to understand how the couples were connected to her. Why were the paintings hidden in a wardrobe in the attic? Why weren’t they on display in the house?
Aubrey didn’t know where to start, but it was time for her to call Mr. Lemon, the attorney. She should have done it sooner, but she had been preoccupied with trying to hold on to her sanity.
That hadn’t turned out well.
One by one, Aubrey carried all the paintings downstairs to the sitting room. She searched through the drawer in the kitchen where she had stored Mr. Lemon’s business card. With trembling fingers, she dialed his number. He answered on the first ring, almost as if he’d been awaiting her call. When she asked him to come over, he didn’t hesitate, saying he would be there within the hour.
Not even thirty minutes later, his car pulled into the driveway. He knocked on the front door, and Aubrey answered it right away.
“You must be Ms. Ross,” he said with a nod.
“You can call me Aubrey,” she replied. “Please, come into the sitting room.”
Obediently, Mr. Lemon followed. “I’m sure you have questions about the legal matters of the estate,” he began.
“Right now I have more pressing matters, Mr. Lemon.”
“More pressing than your financial issues?”
“Definitely.”
Mr. Lemon seemed taken aback by her declaration. He had managed the affairs of Desolate Ridge for many years, and his employers had probably never been interested in anything besides money. Aubrey figured the man found it hard to believe that she would be all that different from her relatives, but his assumptions didn’t matter to her in that moment.
“Well, Ms. Ross, now I’m intrigued. What matters are more pressing than your finances?”
“I need answers, and I don’t know who else to ask.”
“Answers about what?”
“My family.”
“I’m not sure I can help.”
Aubrey gestured toward the pictures she had leaned against the wall of the sitting room. Mr. Lemon’s eyes widened when he saw them.
“I need to know about these paintings,” she began.
“What would you like to know?”
“Who are they? I assume they’re members of the Ross family.”
Mr. Lemon took a deep breath, ruminating, appearing to contemplate his answer. His eyes darted back and forth between Aubrey and the paintings.
“They are your relatives, Ms. Ross.”
“Do you know their names? Can you tell me anything at all about the paintings?”
Mr. Lemon sighed deeply and sat on the edge of the sofa. He removed his hat and placed it gingerly onto his lap, then pulled a handkerchief from out of his breast
pocket and wiped the sweat that had pooled on his upper lip.
Aubrey took a seat in the armchair across from him, watching closely. She marveled at his mannerisms, recognizing he was clearly nervous. She didn’t know what secrets the attorney was privy to, but he obviously knew something.
Aubrey waited for him to speak. After several minutes of awkward silence, he finally did.
“The paintings are wedding portraits.”
“Wedding portraits?”
“Yes. The master of Desolate Ridge has always commissioned a wedding portrait as a present for the new mistress. They used to hang in the parlor until….”
He stopped for a moment and appeared to be weighing his words. There was clearly something he was avoiding, deftly skirting around issues of which he didn’t want to speak.
“The portraits hung in the parlor until when, Mr. Lemon?” Aubrey coaxed gently.
“Your grandmother, Elizabeth, demanded they be removed.”
“Why did she want them removed?”
“It was back when she started having her… episodes.”
“Explain to me what you mean when you say episodes.”
Mr. Lemon sighed. “Elizabeth said the paintings were talking to her, and she couldn’t make them stop. She forced the Bonaventures to take them down and store them in the attic.”
Aubrey let his words sink in before she spoke. Carlton had told Aubrey that the doctors believed her grandmother was schizophrenic, but Elizabeth insisted she wasn’t. There was some kind of mental issue if her grandmother believed paintings were talking to her. Then again, Aubrey herself had seen a woman in the attic who had been dead for two hundred years.
“Mr. Lemon, can you tell me about the couples in the portraits?”
“I don’t know all their names, but that particular painting is of your grandparents.”
Mr. Lemon stood and pointed to the first portrait Aubrey found. Apparently the angry woman with the black hair and severe bun was her grandmother, Elizabeth. The stern-looking man was her grandfather, Stuart. If they were as frightening as they appeared, it was no wonder Aubrey’s mother had run away from home.
“And this one? Do you know their names?” Aubrey gestured toward the woman who could have been her twin and the man she’d seen in her nightmare.
“That was Marshall Ross and his wife, Marie. He had this house built for her. She was the first mistress of Desolate Ridge,” Mr. Lemon explained.
“What happened to her? Can you tell me how she died?”
Aubrey knew it was a strange question, but she couldn’t help it. She had seen firsthand how Marie Ross had died. She just needed someone to confirm it.
“I have no idea how she died, Ms. Ross. I’m not sure anyone does.”
“Why is that?”
“Supposedly, Marie Ross disappeared. I don’t know the details. The woman was a bit of a mystery.”
“Well, I need to know about these people, Mr. Lemon,” Aubrey insisted.
“I apologize, Ms. Ross, but I don’t have the answers you’re looking for.”
“Oh, but I think you do. I am certain you know way more than you’re telling me.”
Mr. Lemon clamped his mouth shut tightly. It was clear that even if he did have information, he wasn’t going to share it.
“Please, this is my life we’re talking about. I need to know.”
Mr. Lemon appeared to deliberate for a moment. Aubrey could see the man was at war with himself. She didn’t understand why everyone was so secretive about the Ross family’s history. Whatever had happened behind the walls of Desolate Ridge was buried so deeply that no one wanted to unearth it.
“I suppose you could talk to Clara Millburn. She’s the town’s historian. The library can tell you how to contact her. She might be able to help you,” he replied tersely.
“I’ll do that. Thank you.”
“I have to go now. I just remembered that I have an appointment.”
Aubrey was surprised at Mr. Lemon’s strange reaction, as well as his abrupt, urgent need to leave. He placed his hat on his head, stood quickly from his seat, and practically ran toward the front door.
“I’ll be in touch. We still need to discuss your financial situation, Ms. Ross.”
“Just let me know when.”
The man nodded as he nearly sprinted toward his car. He started it up and pulled out of the driveway quickly, flinging gravel as he went. Aubrey watched him leave, even more confused about why no one wanted to reveal the secrets of Desolate Ridge.
Shaking her head, she walked into the kitchen to fix a sandwich. Propped against the kitchen counter was a shovel covered in fresh mud.
18
Desolate Ridge — 1920
“Daddy, what are you doing? Where’s Mama?” four-year-old James Ross cried on the portico.
“Go back inside. I’ll be there soon,” Clarence yelled.
“But where’s Mama? I want Mama!”
“Go!” Clarence screamed.
He watched his young son run back into the house, then looked down at the two bodies lying on the ground next to him. He wasn’t sure what he would tell everyone, but he would come up with something. He always did. James would get over not having a mother, just as Clarence had. He’d suffered the loss at a young age as well.
Clarence’s father, Peter, had been overbearing and angry, and Clarence had always believed it was because of the death of his mother, Catherine. She had died in a fire in the sitting room of Desolate Ridge when Clarence was just a year old. He would have died too, had his mother not broken the window and thrown him outside.
Catherine had been burned alive, and Clarence never knew the woman who had first given him life, then saved it. If he had, maybe he would have been different. Or perhaps he’d been damaged goods from the beginning. Sometimes he thought it would have been better if his mother had let him burn.
Clarence Ross dug the hole deeper. He picked up the whiskey bottle and chugged greedily, willing the liquid to chase away the voices in his foggy brain. He wiped the sweat that dripped from his forehead. Burying people was hard work. His arm muscles screamed for him to stop, but he couldn’t. There was nothing to do but finish the job. The ground was soft from the recent spring rains, so that helped.
Clarence couldn’t remember exactly what happened. How had he gotten to the place where he was digging holes to bury bodies? The last thing he could recall was the fury he’d felt when he came home and found the sheriff on the porch talking to his wife, Elsie.
That man had no business being around when Clarence wasn’t home. It didn’t matter that he was the sheriff. Elsie was Clarence’s wife, and she belonged to him. The woman shouldn’t have been talking to other men. Besides, the sheriff was too self-important. He’d needed to be taken down a notch. But Clarence couldn’t remember much after that.
Clarence glanced at the ground where the two bodies lay side by side. He hadn’t meant to take it that far, but when the rage came over him, he couldn’t stop. Sometimes the whiskey helped, but sometimes it made things worse. This time, he’d blacked out completely, awakening to discover he’d lost control. So he had to dig two holes. He’d never imagined the possibility of having to dig two at the same time.
The rage came and went. Sometimes Clarence pretended to be a normal man. Sometimes he was able to convince people he was just like them. That’s what he’d done with Elsie; she wouldn’t have married him otherwise. But once he’d laid eyes on the woman, his only mission in life was to make her his. And he’d done it too. She’d wanted to be a rich man’s wife, after all. He’d won out over the sheriff, who had also wanted Elsie. Clarence had won.
He leaned his weary body on the handle of the muddy shovel. He wished he could remember what had happened, but all he could recall was the rage that had followed him his whole life. It was a vicious cycle, the anger and the blackouts.
Taking another chug of whiskey, he looked at the bodies on the ground and tried to conjure up what had happened, but it was a
ll a blank. Now he would have to make up a story to tell his son, James, to explain where his mother had gone.
Clarence Ross picked up the shovel and continued to dig the holes.
19
Aubrey looked at the shovel leaning against her kitchen counter. She tentatively reached out and touched it. It was real. The wooden handle was worn and splintered, and the head was caked with fresh mud. She smelled the years of dirt and work on the tool.
She couldn’t explain how it might have made its way into the house. She’d never seen it before. The Bonaventures hadn’t arrived yet, so they couldn’t have brought it in. The only person who had been in the house besides Aubrey was Mr. Lemon, and she’d been with him the entire time.
Aubrey paced back and forth across the kitchen floor, trying to come up with a possible answer. As hard as she tried, there wasn’t one. Nor was there a reasonable explanation for the apparition in the attic, the frequent sounds of crying, a fire so real that she’d passed out from the smoke, or any of the other experiences she’d had since her arrival. The only conclusion was the one thing she feared the most—Aubrey was losing her mind.
It wasn’t the first time she’d flirted with a mental breakdown. In fact, she’d had many episodes throughout her tumultuous life. She tried to think back to the techniques she’d learned from her various therapists. The one that always seemed to work for her was sensory grounding. Aubrey needed to focus on what was real, what she could experience through her senses. Those things were concrete, and if she homed in on the tangible, she would be able to center herself.
She tried to think of objects she could see, but the first thing that caught her eye was the muddy shovel. It was real. She could see it. But if that were the case, the only conclusion was that it had been put there by some kind of supernatural force. She refused to believe that was possible.