35. Thirty Three
Thirty Three
Creed
For the first time in a number of months, I’m home alone. I put up as much of a fight as I could, but eventually, Cecil’s promise of a new dutch oven won me over. I like to bake too much for my own good.
So, here I am, wandering around this creepy ass mansion. Again.
It worries me to think of Eden alone with my brother.
Not because I don’t trust him to protect her—I do believe he intends to—but because he isn’t the most emotionally intelligent.
Not to mention, what if something happens to them both?
He wouldn’t tell me where they were going, only that they’d be home by lunch.
“It might help her,” he had said. When I asked how, I was met with an all too familiar glare. And Eden, of course, shrugged cluelessly.
Blowing a raspberry with my lips, I trudge down a corridor, eyeing the macabre artworks. Cobwebs twine around the edges, dust making the images appear blurry.
Near Eden’s room, I spot the thin door I’ve always assumed was another closet. Since moving in, we’ve hardly explored this place. Finding a girl in the attic took precedence, so scouring the rest of the house fell to the wayside.
Curious, I step forward and turn the knob.
Locked. Uh oh. Last time this happened, it wasn’t as simple as a weird room that someone was ashamed of.
In normal circumstances, I might open it to find your usual suspects.
Sex dungeon, room full of collectable dolls, a hoard of guns and money.
Ya know, something interesting enough without completely changing the trajectory of your life.
Tracing my finger over the woodgrain in the old door, I weigh my options. If I were smart, I would leave well enough alone and move on with my day. But…
This is why I shouldn’t be left to my own devices.
I march to the kitchen and throw open the knife drawer, searching for an adequate lock-picker. Buried at the bottom lies a thin, pointed paring knife. I snatch it up.
The handle unlocks easily, and I’m not sure if it’s luck on my side or misfortune. To be safe, I twist the knife into my fist, brandishing it like a weapon. Surely if there were another person locked away, they’d be starved to death by now.
One can hope.
Lingering outside, I take a steadying breath. I can do this. It’s just a room.
With one swift push, the door gapes. I hop behind the wall, peering around the doorframe.
No staircase—that’s a good sign. The curtains are closed, the room dim and dusty.
But it is only a room. An office, if I were to guess.
A large oak desk is pushed along the far side wall, a lamp sat on the edge.
A lounging chair is in the corner, a throw blanket strewn across.
And… that’s it.
But I’m still going to scour through every drawer in the desk.
Despite myself, a mischievous grin spreads over my face. Cecil is going to shit when he finds out I’ve broken into yet another room. Serves him right for leaving me alone.
I yank the curtains open first. Dust particles fly into the air, tickling my sinuses. The office is much like the rest of the house. Dark, cold, lifeless.
Sliding open the top drawer, I’m met with a thick stack of newspaper clippings.
I don’t bother pulling them out, choosing instead to flip through quickly.
Every headline is a missing persons report—much like the one Cecil showed us when he spilled the beans of what he’s been up to all these years.
I narrow my eyes. I would consider it a coincidence, but as I’ve realized lately, very few things are coincidences.
The newspaper clippings give me the creeps, so I move to the next drawer.
A cigar box filled with—you guessed it—cigars.
There are also pens and pencils, a matchbox, and a flask.
A ring glints in the low light, and I lift it to inspect the bizarre emblem etched into the gold.
It’s not quite a cross, but a variation of one.
Wrinkling my nose, I let it slip from my fingers.
Only one drawer remains. I’m both relieved and disappointed that I haven’t found anything extraordinary. The missing persons articles are unnerving, but I already knew Eden’s dad was a whack job.
The bottom drawer is the tallest of them all, and it takes a few jiggles and kicks to get it to pop open. Dropping to my haunches, I lift out a dust covered journal. The face of it is leather, and the pages are yellowed with age. Now, this could be interesting.
I open the first page as quick as my fingers allow.
June 6th, 2033
The baby is due any day now. She has grown cold towards me. I tell her she looks beautiful, but she seldom lets me touch her. All I can do is pray that this child will bring us closer once more.
June 9th, 2033
She will not look at me. She’s withdrawn even more, if that’s possible. I’ve asked if she fears the birth, but she claims that she’s only tired. I hope that is the truth.
June 10th, 2033
Contractions have begun. She’s in great pain, but she won’t allow me to take her to the hospital. She insists on giving birth without help, here at the house. I worry of complications, but I have faith in the Lord. All will be as it should.
June 11th, 2033
I cannot bear to look at it, let alone hold it. If I were a stronger man, I would have snuffed out this Darkness as soon as I recognized it. But I cannot bring myself to do it. The baby is all I have left of my sweet Imogen. This demon from Hell is all I have.
My love lies beneath the water.
Lord forgive me.
My hands have begun to shake as I devour page after page. It’s true then, Eden’s mother did die. Bile rises in the back of my throat, but I swallow it down and flip to a random page.
October 26th, 2051
The procedure was a mistake. It has stirred the Darkness within Eden further. The house itself is in a state of distress. Cold follows me wherever I go, and the lights refuse to cooperate.
We are haunted. This is my fate.
October 30th, 2051
She screams all hours of the night. The pain is unbearable, I know, and I almost find myself feeling guilt.
I haven’t slept in over a week. I’ve placed her in the furthest part of the house, hoping it might help. It only quiets her wails a fraction. I want so badly to be rid of her.
But she is all I have.
December 21st, 2051
Finally, there is silence. She does not talk, she does not scream. Most days, I hardly know she’s here at all. The Lord has granted me peace.
With a disgusted scoff, I slam the journal closed. The thought of eighteen-year-old Eden giving up, being reduced to a shell of a person, makes my body thrum with rage. And those “procedures”? They mutilated her.
Tucking the book under my arm, I decide to keep it. I’m not sure if I’ll show Cecil right away, but I’m not done reading through the entries. It does feel invasive to an extent, but there could be things written in there that help us in the long run.
With the toe of my shoe, I push the drawer back into place. It catches, and I put more force into it. Still, it doesn’t budge. Huffing, I lean down and push with both hands. Instead of closing, the panel on the bottom falls, revealing the drawer was deeper than it appeared. A faux bottom.
Honestly, why do I always have to be the one to uncover the secrets of this place?
Dropping the book to my feet with a thud, I finagle the piece of wood until it lifts out. Nestled underneath is an old aluminum box, worn and dented, the lid popped off in one corner do to how full it is.
Dozens of photos spill out once the top is removed, scattering along the floor like leaves in the autumn. Balancing the box in my palm, I reach for a photograph that landed beside my shoe. The photo is face down, and I drag my thumb beneath it to unstick it from the floor.
My stomach turns sour. Staring back at me, in shades of sepia, is the spitting image of Eden.
I might think it was her, if it weren’t for the obviously swollen stomach.
That, and the woman appears older, if only five years or so.
She stands in a kitchen, hands submerged in sink water.
I recognize the dated oven, and the picture window. The photo was taken here.
It’s her mother.
Even round with a child, her face is slender and striking. The resemblance to her daughter borders on bizarre, and I wonder if Eden takes after her father at all.
For her sake, I hope not.
There’s a hint of a smile on the woman’s lips, but the look in her eyes is… cunning. It’s as if she can see me, peering through the photograph of decades past. A chill runs down my spine.
It shouldn't come as a surprise to find pictures of Eden’s mother in the house. It’s clear in her father’s journal that he did care for her. But there’s a niggling in the back of my mind of something… familiar. Like I’ve seen this before.
Scanning the photo, I take in every detail two times over. The sink is the same. The silver eyes she shares with her daughter. A simple dressing gown is hardly worth noting…
There, at the center of her chest, a memory whirls into place. Sat on a thin chain is a pendant of a sparrow mid flight. Very small, hardly discernible. But I’ve seen it before… I’ve seen it…
The photo slips from my fingertips, swaying back and forth through the air before landing face up.
I’ve seen that necklace, because I’ve seen her.
In Veda’s photo album. Eden’s mom had to have been a teenager in the original photo, if not younger.
At the time I thought it was a coincidence, the similarities to Eden’s appearance.
There are no coincidences.
If I’ve put the pieces together, Veda definitely has. So why hasn’t she said anything?