LeRoux Manor

by Liz Butcher

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  A

  LLYSHA GRIPPED THE back of her husband’s shirt as he led them through the tunnel. They moved as quickly as they dared, the light from his torch barely illuminating the way. “Ouch!” Phillipe yelled, almost dropping the torch as his voice resonated off the walls around them.

  “What? What happened?” Allysha anxiously tried to peer around him.

  “I just stubbed my toe on something.” He pointed the torch down to reveal the trunk, its lid still raised. “Seems like a weird place to store a trunk.” The torchlight ran over the seemingly uninteresting contents.

  “We’ll look at it later,” Allysha urged, and Phillipe led them around the trunk and onward down the tunnel.

  “What’s that?” she asked, futilely pointing ahead.

  “Looks like a light. A dim one.” Phillipe lowered the torch for a moment.

  “Raise the torch again,” Allysha whispered. “This is making me really nervous.”

  Her husband complied, and they edged along until they reached the cave.

  “Wow... would you look at this...” Allysha gazed at the glowing salt surrounding them.

  “This is unreal...”

  “Really had no idea this was here?” she asked.

  Phillipe shook his head. “It would seem there’s a great deal about this place that I don’t know.”

  CAMILLE CRASHED THROUGH the wardrobe, falling to the floor of the cottage bedroom. She lay there for a moment, waiting for her energy to return to her, however slightly. She thought she heard voices coming from the tunnel behind her, and she forced herself to her feet. Staggering across the room, she entered the living area.

  For a moment, she stared at the broken glass on the floor in front of the fireplace, the photo of Alice and Catherine—her and Mena—taunting her. She groped at the lounge in front of her and moved around it to collapse on the cushions. All she could do was stare at the photo, at her own face—albeit older—staring back at her.

  How? She closed her eyes, rubbing them with her palms. It must be an ancestor... Just someone who looks like me.

  That didn’t quite make sense, either; her ancestors were the LeRoux’s, not the staff who had worked for them. Camille gripped the cushion beneath her as she recalled the gravestone she’d seen in the woods. With renewed energy, she pushed herself up off the couch and ran out the front door into the clearing. Trying to determine which way to go, she thought she saw someone move through the trees. She took off after the figure, struggling to keep the person in sight as she weaved through the trees.

  “WHAT IN GOD’S NAME...” Phillipe exclaimed.

  “What is it?”

  He stepped forward through the cupboard, leading his wife into the bedroom of the cottage.

  “Does someone live here?” Allysha asked.

  “Hello?” Phillipe called, moving to the doorway. Peering out, he had full view of the rest of the empty cottage. “Someone must live here. It’s sparse and neat and definitely lived in. Look at the melted candles.” Confident they were alone, he walked to the small shelf at the back of the couch and ran his fingers along the top. “There’s no dust.”

  “Who would live all the way out here? This is still LeRoux property, isn’t it?” Allysha went to the other side of the room.

  “To my knowledge, it is. But I was led to believed there have never been any tenants.”

  “Phillipe, what if whoever lived here was responsible for Lachlan’s uncle? We’ve just exposed our daughter to them...” Her voice came out in a high pitch, and she clutched at her chest, taking short, sharp breaths.

  “Hey, come on, now. We can’t think that way. We can speculate later. After we find her.” Phillipe embraced his wife, waiting for her to show she was ready before he released her.

  When she pulled back, Allysha’s eyes were wide and teary, but she gave him a small nod before glancing over his shoulder at the window. She walked toward it. “It looks like we’re in some kind of clearing. It must be a fair distance from the manor. This just doesn’t make any sense. The manor’s huge. Why would someone live all the way out here and need a tunnel to get to and from the house?”

  “Believe me, I wish I had some answers.”

  Allysha turned from the window, about to walk out the front door, then spotted the broken glass on the floor. “Phillipe.” She nudged her husband and rushed toward the broken glass to pluck the photo from the broken frame. It took her a few seconds to really see the image in her hand. With a shout of surprise, she dropped the photo as though it were on fire and stood fully, both hands clamped over her mouth.

  Her husband hurried toward her, quickly taking in the sight of shattered glass before picking up the photograph. He took a quick look at it, then turned it over. “Alice and Catherine...” he read. “I don’t get it.”

  “Look at her face! It’s Camille...”

  With narrowed eyes, he looked at his wife as though she had lost her mind. But he drew the photo closer for a second look. As he stared at the women’s faces, the blood drained from his face. Despite the woman’s age, he could’ve sworn those were his daughters’ eyes staring back at him; he’d know those eyes anywhere. He let the photo fall once more to the floor as denial kicked in. “It’s not possible. Just a likeness. This place is getting the better of us. Camille clearly isn’t here, so we need to keep looking.”

  “Where is our daughter?” Allysha sobbed, and Phillipe embraced her, wondering the same.

  CAMILLE BROKE THROUGH the trees and found herself standing in a second, smaller clearing. In the centre stood the gravestone still covered in debris of rotting leaves and branches from the trees towering over it. She froze at the sight of the old Mena standing behind it, her head bowed. The woman didn’t give any indication that she knew she was no longer alone. Camille’s heart raced as she braced herself against a tree. Despite coming this far, she was terrified of revealing the truth. It took all her courage to let go of the tree and step into the clearing.

  Unsure of herself, Camille paused and noticed that this clearing was also lined with rough pieces of quartz. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed them the first time she’d been here. But then thoughts of Lachlan flashed through her head, and she quickly cast them aside.

  She approached the gravestone and almost jumped out of her skin when Mena moved with slow, purposeful grace, lowering her arms so her hands hovered on either side of the tombstone, palms facing Camille as though in offering.

  Camille frowned, unsure if she should get any closer. As always, her curiosity won out, and she crept forward. Kneeling on the ground, she cast aside the leaves and branches, tearing at the overgrown vines that had wrapped themselves tightly around the stone. They seemed to fight against her, their thorns tearing into her hands. She hacked away at them with the kitchen knife, but even that was a struggle. Finally, she tore the last section away to reveal a single name.

  Catherine

  There was no date of birth, just the year 1950, the words, ‘Beloved Friend’, and a quote that seemed familiar, though she couldn’t place it.

  ‘I can’t go back to yesterday. I was a different person then.’

  Her chest ached from the ferocity of her heartbeat as she leaned forward and touched the words. A surge of energy raced up her arm and into her forehead. Camille clutched her head in agony, as if she’d eaten something too cold too quickly and had somehow magnified the pain.

  She saw herself standing behind the gravestone and looking down, only when she looked down at the grave in front of her, the ground was freshly turned. She looked up at Mena—Alice—an old woman, a dark veil over her face as she reached under it to wipe away tears with a lace handkerchief. On either side of her stood two identical children about eight years old, and Camille knew she was looking at the McAllister twins.

  “Don’t cry, children,” Mean said quietly. “You will see her again.” The children nodded; their eyes filled with sadness.

  Camille felt the hysteria final
ly take over as she released the grave and ended the vision. Scurrying across the grass, she backed away as quickly as she could.

  “What do you want from me?” she yelled. She tripped and fell backward to the ground, almost cutting herself with the knife still in her hand. When she opened her eyes, she found the old woman standing above her, the woman she now knew was Mena, with her hand outstretched toward Camille. The girl didn’t take Mena’s hand. “I don’t understand any of this...”

  “You will.”

  “What do you want from me?” she asked again.

  “There cannot be darkness without light.”

  “What?”

  “We are two sides of the same coin; you and I. Darkness has always graced me. It’s something I’ve learned to hide with greater success the older I’ve become. Though the desires are always there, whispering in the background, waiting for a sign of weakness. A sign that they can now speak louder. It’s only with the other half of my soul that I can keep the urges at bay. To protect the few people I care for and the legacy of my family.”

  “You’re not making any sense!” Camille yelled, clutching at her temples in frustration and fear.

  “It’s not something I can explain to you. You must experience it for yourself to truly understand. I’ve suffered for so long, waiting for another woman to be born into the LeRoux line. Another child with the hair the colour of fiery autumn leaves. The colour my hair once was. Finally, the Goddess deemed me worthy of the revenge I have so long desired.”

  “Revenge for what?” Camille asked, gaping.

  “Revenge for what my father did to me.”

  “Caleb? What did he do? I don’t understand.”

  “Come with me and you will understand everything.”

  “Camille!”

  She turned as she heard her name called from the woods behind her. “My parents... how did they know about the cottage?”

  “It doesn’t matter now, but they aren’t far. You don’t have much time. You can stay here and wait for your parents and continue to live at the manor as though nothing ever happened. Or you can come with me.”

  “I want answers first. I want to know why—how—we are in the photo together.”

  “I can’t tell you. I can only show you.” Mena held out her hand once again.

  Camille looked back once more as she heard her parents’ shouts again. She wanted to call out to them, to let them know that she was okay, but she knew she couldn’t—not when she finally had the chance to get answers. They would be angry when she returned, but she would explain everything to them, make everything right. Reaching up, she clasped Mena’s hand, surprised by the old woman’s strength as Mena heaved her to her feet. She turned and led Camille across the clearing and into the trees on the other side at a near-inhuman speed.

  Camille tried to get her bearings as they weaved through the trees and could barely feel her feet touching the ground. When they finally slowed to a more manageable pace, Mena released her hand and looked at her. “How old do you think I am?”

  “Seriously? Is that a trick question?” When Mena didn’t answer, Camille swallowed thickly and took a guess. “I don’t know. I mean, I know when you were born, and I know you disappeared and returned years later the same age, but other than that, I have no idea.”

  “Then I will tell you. I am one hundred and fifty years old.”

  Camille remembered the vision she’d had of the manor and the McAllister babies and that Mena had told her she herself was over a hundred. “How are you... why... that’s impossible, though.”

  “Not at all. But you must come with me. Once we complete the circle, you will see everything for what it is. For what it was meant to be.”

  Mena stopped, and Camille looked around her to see they now stood in front of a large rock formation rising from within the woods. Water trickled down across the rocks before disappearing somewhere beneath them. She saw a narrow opening between two of the largest rocks and looked at Mena. “You want me to go in there. Are you insane?”

  Without a word, Mena brought her hand up to Camille’s cheek. The girl gasped, her entire body shuddering with the foreign energy surging through her. Then she found herself looking through someone else’s eyes—a child’s eyes—walking toward the same rock formation.

  “Is it... am I... you?” Camille asked through the haze. Mena didn’t answer, yet Camille innately knew she was right. She saw her hands on the pantleg of a man before her; she released him and hurried toward the rocks, having spotted the opening. She was thinking of what animals might be hiding in there as she got down on her hands and knees and crawled inside. She felt the hard shove from behind, followed by shock and surprise and the realisation that she was falling into nothingness. “Daddy!” she screamed, but there was no answer.

  As she fell, tears pricked her eyes. She loved her Daddy. Why would he do this to her? Why didn’t he want her anymore? Camille could no longer see through Mena’s eyes; she could only see the inside of her own eyelids as she struggled to open them. But she was so overcome by pain; her body convulsed with the intensity of heartbreak and rage to which Mena had clung all these years. She felt it seeping into her own body, winding its way into her mind and her heart like a poisonous vine.

  Camille felt herself being led to the cave, and she didn’t protest. She no longer felt in control of herself, and at the same time, she felt a connection to Mena unlike anything she’d ever experienced, as though Mena’s emotions, her past, were Camille’s—that they really were one and the same, two halves connecting. Through the anger, she felt something else welling within her. It made her tremble with power, and she thought of the goddess she’d seen and the devotion the men had offered her.

  Finally opening her eyes, she saw they were at the entrance to the cave. “It looks too small for us,” she whispered.

  “Don’t let it deceive you. It’s meant to keep people away. We will fit.” Mena stepped aside.

  Camille stepped forward into the darkness; she thought her heart was breaking, though she did not understand why. Mena’s voice sounded far away despite her presence close behind Camille. “My revenge is the end of my journey, but you will see me again.”

  Camille didn’t understand, but as she stepped into the cave, she felt the anger intensify, clearing her mind of all other thought.

  “Are you ready?” Mena asked. Camille didn’t know what for, but she knew she was where she was meant to be. Before she could think about it, Mena nudged them forward, and they were falling into nothing. The fall seemed to last for both seconds and an eternity. She found a strange comfort in Mena’s embrace despite the way her stomach lurched at their rapid descent. But the farther they fell, the more of Mena’s emotions—her entire history—poured into Camille.

  Then Mena started to slip away from her. “No!” Camille cried. She flailed in the darkness, trying to grab a hold of the woman, but her hands closed around nothing.

  ‘Thank you.’

  It was Mena’s voice one last time. Then Camille hit the ground with a thud.

  Groaning, she slowly sat up and saw only darkness. She waited for her eyes to adjust, but the darkness was all-encompassing. Tentatively reaching out around her, she felt rock not far above her head. In front of her, though, there was nothing but air. The tension from her clenched jaw moved up into her forehead, deepening her scowl. All she could think of, all she could feel, was a lifetime of anger, and her body shook beneath its ferocity.

  Finally, she caught a sliver of light from over her left shoulder, and she scurried onto her knees. One hand grasped tightly around the knife she’d somehow managed to grip this whole time. The sliver of light grew the closer she crawled until it revealed a way out of the cave. When she crawled through it, the sudden daylight was blinding. Camille shielded her eyes with a hand and waited for her vision to adjust again.

  The faint sound of music wafted toward her—old-fashioned violins playing a pretty, festive tune. Without understanding why, the sound ange
red her even more. She felt betrayed by it somehow—by the fact that people were enjoying themselves when all she wanted was to scream.

  Blinking a couple times as she lowered her arm, her vision adjusted, and she saw a gentleman in a black suit walking away from her through the woods.

  Caleb.

  Camille gripped the knife even tighter, her breathing now rapid and shallow as the anger engulfed her. With an image of a young Mena fixed firmly in her mind, she charged toward the man.

  Caleb stopped, unsure of the sound behind him, but before he had the chance to turn around, she raised the knife high in the air with both hands and plunged it down into his back. He fell first to his knees, swaying slightly. Camille stood there and watched him, her hands braced on her knees as she panted and sneered. A gurgle rose from the man’s throat, and a small pool of blood formed beside his knee. He tried to reach over his shoulder and grab the knife, but it was impossible. The motion made him moan in pain, and he swayed back just a little before falling flat on his face. The thud of his body hitting the ground pulled her out of her—Mena’s—rage, and Camille stared at the body.

  Then the reality of what she had done hit her. She opened her mouth and screamed, but no sound came out. Camille clutched at her throat; her eyes wide as everything she’d been shown finally made sense. With a silent sob, she turned and ran as fast as she could through the woods.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  W

  HEN CAMILLE STOPPED running, she had no idea how far she’d gone, and she didn’t care. Exhaustion caught up with her, and she sank to the ground at the foot of a tree. Pulling her knees to her chest, she buried her face in her hands, screamed, and could only imagine the sound of it echoing through the trees, sending startled birds from their nests.

  Somewhere close by, a few branches snapped. She looked up, her eyes as wide as a cornered animal’s. She cowered, wishing she could disappear as a woman stepped from the trees in front of her. The woman looked up, saw her, and stifled a yelp. Camille could only imagine how she must look—especially when the woman before her was dressed in a black, old-fashioned maid’s dress, the hem dirty from traipsing through the woods. Her white cap was askew, and a leaf protrude from her bun.