Dark Corner

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by Vicki Vass


  Chapter 32

  Charlotte’s Second Chance

  Mrs. Twiggs bustled into the kitchen and prepared the special turning potion.

  “You completed the circle, Charlotte.”

  “But I’m not a Wiccan. I drank the potion. Nothing happened.”

  “The same thing happened to Mrs. Twiggs. Black magic kept her from turning at first,” I said. “It might have done the same to you.”

  Abigail walked Charlotte over to the couch and sat down next to her while Mrs. Stickman lit the fire. There was an air of anticipation.

  Mrs. Twiggs returned, carrying a teacup. Steam rose from its brim. She placed it down on the coffee table in front of Charlotte. “Okay, dear, drink it up.”

  Charlotte lowered her head and sniffed the concoction and then grimaced. “It smells worse than before.”

  Mrs. Twiggs said, “Drink it quickly.”

  Charlotte raised the cup, looked at Abigail, and then downed it. I waited for something, anything, that would transform her. There was still nothing. No puff of smoke, nothing. Her aura colors did not change. She looked human. I could hear a collective sigh.

  Charlotte said, “So what happens now? Do I get a broom? Do I grow warts?”

  Abigail laughed. “No, Char, it didn’t work. I’m afraid you’re human.”

  “You don’t have to say it like that, Abigail. Like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Oh no, it’s not bad. It’s just we had hoped you would close the coven. We need nine. I’m a witch. I can’t close the coven. It has to be nine members of equal powers. The same but different. Think of it like all the ladies are double AA batteries and I’m a D battery. When they hold hands and form the circle, those batteries combine to make a more powerful charge. If I were to try to complete that circle, it would short-circuit everything. I’ve never seen their circle that powerful. We thought you were the missing battery. We all have power, but we can’t mix and match.”

  Charlotte nodded. “I’m sorry to disappoint everyone.”

  Chapter 33

  Mrs. Twiggs Goes to Jail

  Mrs. Twiggs hung up the phone. “That was Detective Willows. They arrested Mr. White.”

  “We have to talk to him and find out why that painting is so important,” I told her.

  Mrs. Twiggs and I left for the police station. I scratched at my emotional support animal vest. She looked over at me while she was driving and smiled. “I know, Terra, it’s annoying, but it’s the only way to get you in the door.”

  She carried me into the station and walked up to the desk sergeant. “Detective Willows is expecting me. Beatrice Twiggs.”

  He picked up a phone and called the detective, who arrived shortly from the back office. “Let’s walk in here so we can talk,” Detective Willows said.

  Mrs. Twiggs followed, carrying me and petting my fur. We all sat down at a small room off the main hallway, which was lined with small offices.

  “Beatrice, why do you need to talk to Mr. White?”

  “The painting was very important to Emma, and she wanted Charlotte to have it.”

  “We didn’t find the painting. He’s insisting he’s innocent,” Detective Willows said, tilting back in the chair, which squeaked in protest. “He does have a record of breaking and entering. That’s the only reason I could hold him.”

  “I need to ask him why the painting was so important. I need to understand why it was worth killing Miss Hartwell. If for nothing else for Emma’s sake. Miss Hartwell was a devoted companion and nurse to Emma. She took care of her as her health declined.”

  “Five minutes, Beatrice, I can only give you five minutes.” He let us into a room full of holding cells. Mr. White sat by himself on a metal stool, staring at us. The rest of the room was empty. Detective Willows pulled up a chair, placing it directly in front of the cell for Mrs. Twiggs. “Five minutes,” he said again as he left the room.

  “Mrs. Twiggs,” Darren White said, standing. “We met at the estate sale.”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “I want you to know I’m innocent. I would never harm a soul.”

  As he spoke, I felt the same sensation as when I first saw Mr. White. A shadow of a feeling but now I realized it wasn’t him causing the shadow. It was the subject, the painting. I could feel his strong desire for it. He was drawn to it.

  “Why did you come for the painting?” Mrs. Twiggs asked him.

  “It’s quite valuable. It was a gift from George Vanderbilt to the Tangledwoods.”

  “It’s more than that, isn’t it?” she persisted.

  He walked up closer, placing his hands on the bars. As he did, Beatrice grabbed them. His body shook. “Tell me the truth,” she said.

  His eyes darted around the room. “I’m innocent,” he said.

  “Tell me the truth,” she repeated.

  “I’m innocent.”

  “Mrs. Twiggs,” I shouted. “He’s telling the truth.”

  “It’s true. There are witches in Asheville. George Vanderbilt was right.” He said through his tears.

  “Tell me about the painting,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

  “It’s a map to a magic doorway.”

  She let go of his hands, and he fell to the floor. He stood up slowly and rubbed his hands. His eyes were full of fear. “You are a witch. How did you do that?”

  Beatrice stood up. He cowed back in terror. “How does the painting work?”

  “I don’t know. I just know the history of the painting. I studied the art of the Vanderbilt’s. I thought it was a myth; the story makes the painting more valuable to collectors. But now I know it’s real.”

  “He’s telling the truth, Beatrice, he didn’t kill Miss Hartwell,” I told her.

  She waved her hand in the air, and Mr. White collapsed on the metal bunk. She said one word, “Forget.” And then we left.

  Detective Willows opened the door leading back out to the free world, staring at Mrs. Twiggs. She raised her hand. He grabbed it by the wrist. “Don’t Beatrice. I don’t want to forget what I just saw.” She lowered her hand as he let go. “I’ll help you anyway I can.” He gave her a hug.

  We rode back to the Tangledwood Estate, mostly in silence, as I cleaned my fur. It was a nervous tic I had picked up over the past century or so. Mrs. Twiggs drove into the Montford District and stopped the car when she reached Karen Owen’s home. I leaped out of the car and followed her up the steps, looking left and right over the wraparound porch for the rocking chair man. Thankfully the chair was empty. Mrs. Twiggs lightly tapped the gold door knocker. Squirrel appeared from around the deck. Mrs. Owen opened the door and welcomed us in. She led us into the front room. Mrs. Twiggs settled on the couch, Mrs. Owen across from her on the high-back chair like a queen on her throne I thought.

  “Karen, I know I’m in debt to you, but I need to ask you a favor,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

  Mrs. Owen smiled. She said, “Beatrice you’ve accumulated quite a tab. I think it’s time we talked about payment.”

  “Of course, Karen, what do I owe you?”

  Mrs. Owen looked at the end of the couch directly at me.

  Mrs. Twiggs appeared confused.

  “I require the cat.”

  “Karen, you must be joking.”

  Mrs. Owen shook her head. “Terra Rowan was a very powerful witch in her previous form. I have the means to extract those powers.”

  “What do you mean extract?”

  “Don’t worry, Beatrice. It won’t harm her. And the powers are of no use to her in her present form.”

  “What will happen to her?”

  “She will live out the rest of her day as a cat not able to communicate. Not tied to her past or headed toward her future. She will live a normal cat life and die a normal cat life. She will be joyfully bliss in her ignorance.”

  I extracted my claws and hissed. Squirrel pounced on me and knocked me off the couch. I turned and screamed into Squirrel’s mind. “Get out.” She bounced off the floor and ran out screaming. I
jumped on the coffee table.

  “Mrs. Owen, I know the tab you keep. We will find a fair payment for Mrs. Twiggs’s bill,” I said.

  She lifted me by my scruff and brought me close. “I can take away all your pain, Terra Rowan. The memories that haunt you. I can give you peace.”

  Mrs. Twiggs clutched the silver amulet from Agatha Hollows. “Karen, the price is too high.” She raised her hand.

  “No,” I said. Karen Owen was much too powerful a being for Mrs. Twiggs to confront. “I will lead you to the portal, Mrs. Owen. I will show you how to enter. I know Agatha Hollows shut your way.”

  She put me back down onto the coffee table and reached under the seat, pulling out a leather-bound book. She opened it and then handed Mrs. Twiggs a fountain pen. “Prick your finger, Beatrice, with this pen.” Beatrice did as she requested. The pen soaked up Mrs. Twiggs’s blood. “Sign here.” Beatrice examined her bill and signed. Mrs. Owen snapped the book shut. “Now how may I help you?”

  “We have questions about a painting.”

  “I know which painting you refer to,” Mrs. Owen said. “The road into Dark Corner. George Vanderbilt commissioned that painting. At one of the séances they held, the dead spoke of the trail to Poinsett Bridge. The painting is charmed as it was painted by one of the last wood fairies. She was brought to the forest by Olmsted from one of his excursions to Ireland. Her kind have passed, but the magic of the painting carries on, but it’s only part of the map.” She looked down at me. “You know the rest, don’t you? You know how to get to the river.”

  Chapter 34

  Pixel’s Missing

  “Pixel,” I screamed as I roamed the halls of the Tangledwood Estate. He had been acting so strange, but it was not like him to miss a meal or two or three. But now it had been nearly two days since I had seen him. I entered the library. Mr. Tangledwood sat by the fire, puffing on his pipe. He had passed several years before Mrs. Tangledwood. Unlike Albert Twiggs, he lingered not for the love of his wife but for the love of his possessions. He stood guard over them like a night watchman at the Louvre. His cars, his books, all called to him. Mrs. Tangledwood had only spoken of him once, and it was not fondly. He was a selfish man in life and continued to be selfish in death. “Mr. Tangledwood where is my friend? Where is the orange cat?”

  He ignored me and stared onto the lawn, puffing away. He took out a pipe cleaner and scraped the bowl. I extended one claw and stuck it deep into the leather of his chair, ripping it open. He gasped and stared at me. Then he smiled and packed his bowl with tobacco. I leaped onto a table and knocked over a Ming vase. This time he ignored me. I saw him staring out at the open garage door. I ran out and leaped onto the hood of the 1961 Mercedes. He floated in the corner of the garage, watching. I extended my claw and scratched the hood. He flew down, eyes wide open, screaming at me, but nothing came out. I went into the front seat and tore it apart.

  “Stop,” he yelled. “Stop.”

  “You can speak, can’t you?”

  “Stop, you filthy creature.”

  “Where’s my friend? Did the lieutenant take him?”

  “No,” he shouted.

  I raised my claw about to scratch the dash.

  “Stop. I don’t know where your friend is.”

  And then I realized Mr. Tangledwood was a spy. “Tell me about the lieutenant,” I commanded as I gently rubbed my claw along the dashboard.

  “The lieutenant is gathering an army. He’s going to destroy you and all the other filthy witches.”

  “You have been spying for him, haven’t you?”

  “He promised me I could stay on my estate and live here forever. I want no part of the war that’s coming. I want to be left alone.”

  I could see he was a worthless creature. He had no fight in this battle. He took no side other than his own. I ran onto the front lawn. It would be dark soon, another night with no Pixel. The end of another day without Pixel. I could feel he was still alive. I could smell his aura. It seemed close. I lay on my back, staring up at the clouds, imitating Pixel rolling back and forth, thinking of the simplicity of his happiness. The little things that gave him joy. Anger rose inside me. The thought of any harm coming to him made me want to do harm. I closed my eyes and called out to him. Then I felt something land on my belly. I opened my eyes to see the purple-and-white butterfly that had followed Pixel around. Pixel’s friend, Flutter, as he named her. She flew and circled me. I followed her back to the estate, back inside the grand hall with its marble floor and high ceiling. She floated into the library, landing on a book. It was Emma’s favorite book, the first edition of a collection of writings by Frederick Law Olmsted. I reached up to look at it. As I pulled it down, a wall of books opened up, revealing a secret room. An orange blur leaped out on top of me.

  “Hungry. Me so hungry,” he said, biting my neck.

  “Pixel?”

  “Terra me eat first.”

  The french doors leading into the library slammed shut. Charlotte stared down at us.

  “You know, don’t you? You can tell the others.” She grabbed the fireplace poker, lifting it over her head. I was in shock, unable to move. Before it crushed my skull, Pixel leaped, pushing me out of the way. The poker landed its blow across his back. I regained my senses and leaped onto her, clawing at her neck and face. She screamed. The doors burst open.

  Mrs. Twiggs screamed, “Terra, what are you doing?” She saw Pixel broken and bloody on the floor and looked at Charlotte, poker still in her hand. Mrs. Twiggs raised her palms and cast a spell. The poker fell from Charlotte’s hand, and she stood frozen in time. Mrs. Twiggs knelt next to Pixel, listening for his heartbeat. “It’s very faint, Terra.”

  Abigail ran into the room, not understanding what she was seeing. She knelt down beside Pixel, sobs coming. Mrs. Twiggs lifted his limp body. As we drove to the animal hospital, Abigail incited every healing spell she had learned. Nothing was working. Pixel remained still, unmoving. He was too far gone. Abigail had once saved Tracker from near death, but this was different. This was sudden and fatal. My tears merged with Abigail’s. Pixel’s aura was a shadow. He was leaving this world. I could see him struggling to open his eyes. My heart wrenched from my body. I screamed out. He had given his life for mine. We reached the animal hospital where the technicians rushed him to surgery. Already the other ladies were arriving. They stood vigil in the waiting room, each one praying to their ancestors and to the true and only one Goddess. They held hands in their circle, but the powerful magic was not there. I realized then it wasn’t Charlotte that completed the circuitry of the coven, it was Pixel. She had been holding Pixel. He was the conduit. Something or someone had gifted the magic to Pixel. I prayed that magic would see him through now. I noticed a bloodhound in the waiting room with no master, collar, or leash.

  “Mrs. Lund,” I whispered.

  She nodded her head with long droopy ears flopping to and fro.

  We walked outside. “Terra, they are gathering. All the dark souls are rallying around the lieutenant with the promise that he will lead them into the portal. All the lost souls that haunt the Poinsett Bridge are waiting to join him.”

  “I can’t leave Pixel. I can’t.”

  “The only way to save him is for you to enter the portal.”

  We waited out the night. In the morning the doctor joined us in the waiting room.

  “My name is Dr. Courtney,” he said to Mrs. Twiggs. “Your cat is very…”

  “Pixel, his name is Pixel.” Mrs. Twiggs interrupted.

  “Yes, of course, Pixel, he has a broken spine. I did what I could. The next twenty-four hours are critical. If he does recover, he’ll never walk again.”

  Mrs. Twiggs cried into her handkerchief. Abigail put her arm around her.

  “I’m so sorry. We have to wait and see,” Dr. Courtney said before heading back the way he had come.

  Mrs. Lund stared at me.

  “Mrs. Twiggs, Abigail, we have to get back to the estate,” I said. The ladies p
romised to remain with Pixel as the three of us headed back to the Tangledwood Estate.

  The sun crashed through the stained-glass window of the library, engulfing Charlotte in its cranberry-red glow. She stood frozen as we had left her. The secret passageway door was ajar. The sliver of the light from the windows illuminated the missing painting. We entered gazing at the treasures there, Emma Tangledwood’s stolen treasures. Mrs. Twiggs walked up to Charlotte and waved her hands. She collapsed, shaking her head.

  “Who are you?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.

  Before Charlotte could spew her lies, Mrs. Twiggs slid her finger across her lips. She screamed as they burned bright red. “My name is Morgan Andrews.”

  “Why did you pretend to be Charlotte Tangledwood?”

  “I…” She began to stutter; her lips burned bright red.

  “You can’t lie.”

  “Stop, please. Miss Hartwell came to me at the Swannanoa Correctional Center for women. She was a nurse there before she came to work for Mrs. Tangledwood. She showed me a picture of a young girl, Charlotte. She said I looked like her. That I could make a lot of money pretending I was her.”

  “Why did you kill her?”

  She tried keeping her lips shut, but they flew open. “She said I would inherit this mansion and all Mrs. Tangledwood’s money. When we found out that all of it was going to the Biltmore Foundation except for that stupid painting, I told her I wanted a share of everything she had stolen. She had been taking things from the old woman for years, hiding it away. When she refused, I said I would tell the police. That night we got in an argument. She had a knife. She said she would kill me if I said anything. I grabbed the poker. I-I… It was self-defense. I didn’t mean to kill her.”

  “And you hid the painting so you could blame Mr. White?”

  “He was obsessed with the painting. He kept calling and texting me,” she said.

  “You made it look like he broke in?”

  She struggled to open her lips and then said, “Yes, I panicked. I was afraid. I didn’t want to go back to the prison. I saw Miss Hartwell sneaking stuff into that room. I saw her pull on that book. After I killed her, I hid the painting in there. Pixel saw me and followed me in.”

 

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