Page 31 of Blackwicket
This was a familiar Drudge, the oldest of them, present even before my mother was brought to the house. It refused to leave, refused to be healed. I’d spent my childhood falling asleep with her standing by our beds, silent and watching, dipping in and out of view as the clouds obscured the moon. She’d never hurt us, just observed, waiting for something we weren’t quite sure of. My mother began calling herAuntiewhen it became clear she was frightening us. The familiar moniker did its job, and while she remained unsettling, she was merely another strange aspect of our lives no other soul was aware of.
Except for Thomas.
Not needing both my sister’s and Thomas’s ghosts haunting me, I spurned the memories and sprinted after the creature, seeking to verify it was truly her.
The hall was dimly lit, the glow of the foyer chandelierreduced in the presence of Auntie, and the vast energy it took for her to maintain form. I couldn’t determine where she’d gone until a shift of light caught my eye, moving beneath the door of a storage room behind the check-in counter. This space had been a ladies’ parlor, but its function was rejected by Blackwicket women who had no intention of squeezing themselves into such an isolated, quiet space. Instead, it served as a safer storage alternative to the crumbling tower. Another rotation of shadow encouraged me closer.
As I approached, I hummed a long-ago tune my mother had taught me. Her soft singing voice, far superior to mine, echoing in my ear with every step.
Oh, Moira, my love, I meant not to stray
But the sea it was calling that bright summer’s day
And the sea, as you know it, takes lovers away
But call me back with your sorrows,
And in spirit, I’ll stay.
She’d woven this ballad into our daily lives, asking me to sing as she did her curse eating work or whenever I was afraid of Auntie. During the times I was too scared to do it on my own, Fiona had chimed in, inserting my pet name.
‘Oh, Ellie, my love…’
I opened the door to the storage closet, finding it had been transformed into an office, feminine and delicate, with pink damask paper and a simple white desk, its single lamp shining. The lamp’s yellowed fringe swung delicately from the vibration of my footsteps, interrupting the daylight streaming through the window. The space was deserted.
I furrowed my brow, frustrated I’d let myself be led on awild goose chase. As I stood in the doorway, I wondered what Fiona had been doing with a space like this. What work had she been tending to? Needing a distraction, and with nothing else to occupy me, I took a seat and began rifling in the three desk drawers, none of them locked. I wasn’t sure what I’d find or what I was looking for. Perhaps a ledger, something to help me comprehend what Fiona had done with her life. What friendships she’d formed, and hardships she’d faced, what had driven her to make such an absurd amount of blackberry jam.
The top drawers contained nothing of interest: newspaper clippings of town events, receipts for food and clothing. I pulled open the bottom, revealing several stacks of letters folded neatly and bound with twine. They were organized in a way indicating she cared for them, and I withdrew the top one.
The letter was romantic in nature, signed by William. I read no more than the first few lines, then returned it to its envelope. I wouldn’t pry. My sister’s romances were her own, and William was still alive and capable of being embarrassed by the contents. But curiosity drove me to pull the remaining stack free, and check the dates on each. All were over three years old, signaling an end to their romance. I’d never been fond of William, less because of his own faults and more due to his stealing my sister’s attention from me when it had always been mine.
As I arranged them back in place, a second sheaf of letters caught my attention, the papers were mismatched, words written on bits of stationery from hotels and various postmasters. These were the letters I’d sent to Fiona over the years, all thoughtfully folded.
Here and there, I discovered half-written responses, never sent, full of affection and concern. Some begged me not to write anymore, to move on and live, others were filled with requests that I come home. These hurt the most. The last was dated a week before I’d sent my final plea for her to meet me in Devin.
Ellie, it’s pained me all this time to keep secrets, but the bowels of hell offer more gentle hands than Nightglass and I’m grateful you are anywhere but here. This town is a wasteland of beautiful faces with terrible intentions, and I’ve never harbored such disgust for others, even during the worst times with Mother. For a while, I bore it, believing I could do something for this place.
The Drudge send their regards; they’re peculiar as always but have been restless, making a nuisance of themselves. People are becoming wary of the house again, but it’s for the best, though William isn’t happy.
There are days I regret encouraging you to leave, and others, like today, when I’m grateful beyond measure you were never forced to live this imprisoned life. Are you still in the apartment with the view of the bakery? I’m happy knowing you think of me when you see it. Please, tell me where I can meet you and I’ll be there. I promise.
Fiona
In the stillness of night, I thought I’d never cry another tear, but they came easily now, sliding down my chin and plinking onto the paper. I sat this way for so long that when I looked up again, the sunlight had turned to the faint golden yellow of late afternoon.
I collected the letters, deciding they’d be the only items I’d save from Blackwicket House. As I closed the drawer, hollow hearted, light caught the edge of a miniature golden frame, hidden at the bottom. The photo inside captured a candid moment on a lush green lawn. My sister, mouth open mid-laugh, sat on a picnic blanket in a pink linen dress between two people. William, whose cane rested close by, lounged to her left, his smile shy and genuine. To her right was a beautiful woman whose red lips curled in bemused affection. It was Ms. James, the Vapors headliner who’d glared at me with considerable hostility.
Fiona was touching them both, a hand on Ms. James’ arm, another on William’s knee, her joy seemingly genuine.
I turned the frame, removing the backing to reach the photo, when something tucked inside fluttered onto my lap: a small oval cut image, meant for a locket. It was of Fiona, her hair unpinned, her cotton dress plain. She stood barefoot on the rocky beach, a little boy in corduroy overalls clinging to her leg. The corner of this picture was marred by a spill of ink, a black stain spreading over the boy’s pudgy toes. Without thinking, I touched it with my thumb, and the stain shifted.
It was a curse—small in its bare beginnings, growing like mold in the dark. The little effort it would take prompted me to bring the snapshot to my lips, as if placing a kiss on the faces there. The curse rose with little resistance, and I took a minute to unravel the pitiful thing and release it again, white as frozen breath.
I examined the photo, hoping for a date, finding an inscription.
My son, Roark, age four.
Son.
