Page 20 of His to Haunt

I’m contemplating this while I grab a coffee mug and fill it via the nicely modern coffee pot. Then I sit on the barstool upto the grey marble counter, finally opening the manila envelope while waiting for Kimmie to arrive. She ran into some traffic but should be here by sundown. If only she could stay longer than the weekend after such a long drive. But it’s better than nothing.

Sliding the contents onto the counter, I sort through the stack of papers. A sheet of blueprints of the home, followed by stacks of faded paper to do with money, like old price sheets or something. There are a couple of different maps. One is of the grounds and a plot to a cemetery.

This would be the private family cemetery—one of the first questions I had when Stacy reached out to me was whether people would be visiting. Taking on a retired funeral home is weird enough, but a public cemetery with a continuous flow of traffic would be more than I could probably handle.

I continue sorting.

There are a couple of news articles. One is regarding the Byron family’s extensive and rare Egyptian artifact collection, which I only skim. There is some kind of reference sheet attached to it. I’ll look at that more later.

Next is an article titled The Widows of Moonvine. My curiosity piqued, I glue my eyes to the page while reading something akin to a cheap tabloid about the doomed wives of the notorious Moonvine Manor in historic San Mateo County.

The article explains that spanning over a hundred years, each lost their lives in a sordid manner, from suicide to mysterious deaths and even suspected murder. But nothing was ever proven. No arrests were ever made. Naturally.

The last sentence finishes with the mention of ghosts, stating that there has been many a rumor of a poltergeist that haunts the halls of Moonvine Manor, driving some of its inhabitants insane.

It’s that last part—the least believable part—that ironically manages to give me a tiny bit of chills down my shoulders. Or maybe it’s just a breeze in the air. However illogical andimprobable it may be, the idea of a poltergeist is a spooky thought. My mind jumps to the metal banging coming from the basement last night, but because I am a sane and reasoning person, I laugh it off.

Lastly, I open the envelope at the back of the stack, pulling out a handwritten letter of some sort. My stomach jumps when I realize that it’s addressed to me, from Rachel.

I’m Dead

Rachel

Dear Leena,

Hey, sweetie. Gosh, long time no see, huh?

If you are reading this, then, well… I’ve hired a family friend, Stacy Hebler, as executor of my will. She will have gotten in touch with you. You can trust her.

Please know that my death is probably not by accident. I dug too deep, and I saw too much. It’s a long story.

Sister to sister. PLEASE read my old journal. It’s in the purple and black room near the library, if you haven’t already found it, hidden behind the top white drawer. My laptop is hidden there, too.

It’s a crazy mix of notes and such, spanning several years—I go through phases when I jot stuff down. It’s the only way you can understand my life in a nutshell. Also, here is the password for my laptop: L3M0rt3! Mortician’s daughter, what can I say? Please check out the files on there.

I can’t in one letter help you to understand what is nearly impossible to believe, let alone to stomach. Just don’t listen to what anybody says about me. There are so many lies!

Unfortunately, nobody can say she would never kill herself. Nobody can say that I was happy and full of life and not at all depressed or suicidal. But that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t killed off, made to go away for good.

I make it sound like revenge, but really, if/when it comes, it will be more complicated than that. Not an accident—not something that happened by innocent negligence but via a dark, insidious plan.

I know this is confusing. But I must choose my words carefully, so I don’t scare you off before you even have the chance to understand.

My brain is muddled.

I’m sitting in my favorite burgundy chair after having too much red wine, and all I want to do is lay my head back and sleep, but I know I must write this down before it’s too late.

Weird to think that you, my sister, might be sitting in the same spot reading this.

I’ll never forget what happened the day that I got the chair at a vintage place, Monique’s. She specializes in old French and French-looking furniture, distressed in shades of grey, white, pale blue, and pea green, gold mirrors, toile scenery on the paintings and dishes, pillows, and blankets in pink, blue, and brown, and always plenty of paint-chipped white and black candlesticks, and elegant, rusted iron bird cages.

Right after leaving Moniques that day, I learned that Dad died, following his wife by one year.

Half of the stuff in this house is from that store, the other half is from long ago, passed down for generations. Some of it is secret and dangerous. Read my notes about the relics, please.

No, I don’t expect you to take up the Byron family trade in my absence, Leena, and spend your days working in the basement. Do what your heart desires. But be careful with this house. Certain rooms have been off-limits for good reason. Part of the reason I’m in so much trouble.

Where do I start? I must explain things in a certain order for you to understand why I’ve brought you here.

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