Page 2 of Bloodstained
CHAPTER ONE
CLARA
The train rattled softly as it wound its way through the countryside. I rested my head on the window and looked on, the faint sound of wheels against tracks a steady backdrop to my thoughts.
I watched as the sprawling fields and clusters of trees blurred by and faded into the horizon. The scenery looked nothing like London—nothing familiar or what I was used to—but somehow it felt like it this was exactly where I was supposed to be.
It felt like I was going back to a place I should have always been, like I was finally finding the perfect soil to grow my roots. I’d grown up hearing stories about this area from my parents and maternal grandparents. The village I was moving to was tucked away in Eastern Europe—the same place where my family had once lived.
And although my father had also come from Eastern Europe, there had never been stories of a place he’d once called home. I’d long since realized he’d run away from something, and talking about it, fondly or not, triggered him.
My maternal and paternal grandparents had left Romania long before my parents were born, and while they’d neverspoken much about why they’d decided to leave, they carried the memories with them close to their hearts.
But underneath the reminiscences of childhood times, I had always sensed a shadow of something dark and unspoken that lingered in their words, hidden like a dirty secret they were terrified to utter.
The older I got, the more I kept thinking about why they left…what they were hiding. And when I’d become an adult with the means to find out those secrets, it became an obsession I couldn’t let go of.
Maybe I’d inherited their darkness, too?
The why and how and what ifs had a grip on me. As a child, I would dream about what my ancestral home looked like. What did it smell like? What about the people there? Did they keep to themselves? Were they friendly in passing?
I’d become so engrossed with finding out everything I could that I had dreams about it all—memories and images I'd never experienced of winding forests and crumbling castles. They looked like the pictures I’d found online, ones of this ethereal place that seemed haunted yet was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life.
And under it all, there was this hum of something I couldn’t name. My dreams weren’t nightmares, but even if they were wonderful at first, they always turned unsettling.
Like fate was giving me a warning to stay away.
But when I got the opportunity to intern at the Primejdie Art Gallery in the same village where my grandparents had lived, I jumped at the chance.
I paid little attention to the fact the gallery was named after an immediate sense of harm.
And I took the paid housing and board with the position as a sign. It was time for me to leave—much to my maternal grandmother and parents' stern disapproval.
But I explained to them that this was the kind of opportunity artists fought for, and folklore or things they kept hidden and never shared with me couldn't persuade me from turning it down.
So here I was, watching the scenery whiz by me for long hours before the train pulled into a small station surrounded by clusters of red-tiled roofs and winding cobblestone streets.
Most of my stuff was shipped and arrived last week at my tiny guesthouse owned by a widow named Anca. I gathered my suitcase and purse and disembarked the train, just standing on the platform for a second, taking my surroundings all in.
The town was even smaller than I’d expected. It was the kind of place that felt untouched by time, secure in the way things had always run, cursing away any kind of modern convenience. The streets were lined with narrow buildings, their exteriors painted in soft pastel colors with window boxes empty, as this time of year killed off any new life.
People walked slowly, most transferring trains or getting off the one I’d just exited.
My one-bedroom guesthouse had been arranged by the gallery. I glanced at my phone to see the time, but when I felt someone stop in front of me, I glanced up to see an older man holding a sign with my name scrawled across it.
“Clara Popescua?” the older man asked.
“That's me,” I replied. I reached down for the handle of my suitcase.
“I’m Gheorghe. Your driver.” His voice was deep and gruff, his face weathered with age and a life of working hard.
I instantly heard his distinct Romanian accent. The same one my grandparents had. Although I spoke the language fluently, their dialect was slightly different, as it occurred with villages and little towns, and the way his words flowed made me miss my family.
He grumbled something under his breath and took my suitcase from me. “It’s nice to meet you. Follow me.” He wasted no time ushering me into his car, a tiny, rattling vehicle that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and age.
The drive to the guesthouse took less than ten minutes, the streets winding in a way that felt almost maze-like and had my car sickness rising.
Anca’s guesthouse was tucked at the edge of town and only a short walk to the gallery. It was a one-story stone building with dead foliage and vines creeping up the sides.
