Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Emery
Crowsbridge Hollow’s cemetery could be the set of a gothic horror movie.
It’s full of weeping willows, tall sturdy maple and oak trees, hills, intricately designed statues, and all different kinds of headstones.
I walk past the newer plots, following the asphalt path toward an older section behind a wrought iron fence.
I pass the Widow, noting no new streaks on her face today. That’s a good sign, I hope.
My arm tingles as I pass her. A warning or a greeting?
The Sterling family plot dominates this hill, overshadowed by a massive oak tree. Squirrels scatter and race up the trunk, barking at me from higher branches. Guess they’re not used to having visitors.
Feeling like an intruder, I push the fancy iron gate open and step inside the large fenced-in area. A wide, white mausoleum stands at the back of the plot, beckoning me closer.
“Okay, Declan,” I mutter to the trees. “Forgive me, but it’s time to uncover your family’s secrets.”
While a lot of the cemetery seems haphazard, the Sterling section seems to be organized by generation.
The dates on the headstones get older as I approach the large white building.
Nothing but prayers are engraved on the outside but next to it stands a tall, imposing obelisk marked Silas Sterling with a birth date that pre-dates Crowsbridge Hollow.
Intricate carvings of vines and a book decorate the stone.
Lined up neatly beside the marker for Silas stand three simpler white headstones.
Martha Sterling. Beloved Wife. After a quick calculation, I realized she died at nineteen. Nineteen!
The next one reads Clara Sterling. Devoted Wife. Clara made it to twenty-one.
Then Eleanor Sterling, Cherished Third Wife who made it to the ripe old age of twenty-two.
No fancy headstone for the wives. No maiden names or indication of who they were before they married. Just a simple rose carved into the top of each marker. As if the women had been interchangeable and had no distinct personalities.
A cold chill that has nothing to do with the wind slides down my spine. Three wives. All dead within a few years of marriage. All young. Silas was well into his forties when he married Clara.
Gross.
I crouch down, pulling out my phone to snap a picture, then switch to Voice Memos.
“Sterling family plot,” I whisper into the mic, staring at the moss-eaten dates. “Silas Sterling buried three wives in the span of twenty years. Causes of death unknown, but the pattern is…interesting. Is this the true curse of Crowsbridge Hollow?”
I stop recording. The skeptic in me says childbirth, fever, tuberculosis, or maybe the rampant misogyny of 19th-century healthcare took the three young brides. I run my gaze over the line of headstones again.
And then I have an answer of sorts. Six tiny headstones clustered to the side.
I frown at the plain markers and run my gaze over the stones, seeking names or birth dates.
Nothing but a year on each of them. Did they die right after birth?
Or live a while, then get sick? Fail to thrive after their mothers died?
The stones have no answers. Not even which child belonged to which mother.
I move to the next row of three stones. Based on the dates, this must be a son of Silas Sterling—Lincoln. He only had one age-appropriate wife, although she also died young.
I pull out my notebook and jot down each name and date.
A phantom weight presses down on my chest. I tuck my pen into the notepad and drop it in my bag. My throat tightens. I’m suddenly very aware of how quiet the air is up here.
I turn and stare at the Weeping Widow. From here she doesn’t seem sad. No, she looks furious. Like she’s been waiting for someone to notice. Or forever judging the Sterlings?
It’s just history. People died young. Babies didn’t always make it. Accidents and diseases also killed younger people. Women were treated like property and married off to older men. Whatever happened here doesn’t add up to a generational curse, does it?
I swallow hard and take a breath.
On instinct, I pull my camera out of my bag and film some background footage—the statue, the hill, the headstones with the mausoleum looming behind them.
My voice is shakier than I’d prefer.
“This is the Sterling plot,” I murmur on camera, feeling like a traitor.
“So far, I’ve discovered one of the earliest Sterlings to settle in Crowsbridge Hollow had at least three wives.
And six babies who didn’t make it to their first birthday.
I don’t know what this means yet, but it feels significant. ”
I pause the recording. What am I supposed to do with this? It’s tragic, sure. But am I uncovering a mystery or turning folklore into something darker than it needs to be?
A gust of wind slaps my cheeks and my eyes water. I rub my hands together, cursing that I forgot gloves again. My gaze snags on my nails. Jagged, chipped black polish.
I huff out a breath that’s close to nervous laughter. I may not be able to solve this mystery, but I passed a nail salon when I left the inn earlier.
“I can fix my nails,” I whisper. Maybe focusing on something mundane, like a manicure, will help my brain work through what I’ve learned.
Or if nothing else, I’d at least like to look nice when I meet Declan later.
I take one last look at the Sterling graves, then at the Widow watching over them. There’s more research to be done. Much more.
“I’m not done yet,” I whisper under my breath. “I’ll be back.”
Above me, a crow cries, harsh like it’s punctuating a sentence. Maybe it heard my promise and plans to hold me to it. Or it’s trying to warn me to abandon this project.
I tuck my camera away and start down the hill, but I can’t shake the feeling the Widow’s hollow eyes follow me all the way to the cemetery gates.