Chapter 8
Eight
AURELIA
One name runs through my mind as I approach the church.
Lilibeth.
Rain pours over me, plastering my hair to my skin.
Each cold drop raises fresh goosebumps along my arms, and my black shirt clings to me, soaked through and heavy.
My jeans tighten with every step, dragging against my legs, and my shoes sink into the mud along the garden path leading to the church.
In the dark, the thunder sounds louder, closer to the cliffs.
My heart has been pounding so hard since I got here that the rhythm almost feels normal now.
I stop when I reach the brown wooden door.
The church is built from stone, and a faint light glows through the windows. I stare at it, unable to understand how any light inside has managed to last this long.
Carefully, I push the door open and step inside.
A cold chill brushes over my skin as I move further in. Only a few wooden benches sit on each side, lined with faded red velvet cushions. To the left stands an iron table with three rows of candles, but only one is still burning.
As I step toward it, the door swings shut behind me.
I spin around with a gasp, my breath catching in my throat.
Swallowing hard, I force myself closer to the candle, my gaze lifting to the carved stone above the iron table.
“Gone from our sight, held in His light,” I read out loud.
My right hand reaches for a candle while my left rests against the empty iron row beneath it.
“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain...” Revelation 21:4 is written in tiny letters across the first row.
Tears slip down my face, trailing over my cheek and down my neck, but I barely feel them. My whole body is numb with pain. I take the candle beside the one already burning, and a sob breaks out of me. I lift it to the flame and light it before setting it down.
For Mom.
I take another one and let the flame catch the wick. Warmth brushes my fingers as wax drips over my skin, and I place it beside the first.
For Dad.
The tears keep falling as I reach for another candle. This time, I hesitate, my hand trembling, but I still light it and set it beside the others.
For Daniel.
My mother once said God works in mysterious ways, and we shouldn’t question the path we are on, but I lost that faith.
What kind of path is this, where I will never see my mother’s face again?
Where I will never hear my father’s voice telling me how to move through life, urging me past my fears?
Every day, it feels like my memories of them are slipping further away, and all I’m left with are fragments.
Their faces. Their voices. The people they were. Even that is starting to fade.
Life is just a flashback in the end, I guess. You pass into another life with nothing but your soul, and what is left on Earth becomes a memory. Even the things you owned grow old, fade, rot, and turn to ash.
My chest burns as my thoughts flicker like an old film reel.
In one memory, my father taught me how to drive.
His hand shot out when I pressed too hard on the gas, his face turned white in panic as he grabbed the wheel.In another, my mother in the kitchen, baking every single birthday cake for me.
The one with strawberries, because it was always my favorite.
The way she used to stop everything when I played the piano, listening to every single note with her eyes closed like she wanted to hold on to every sound like she might lose me.
And Daniel... taking me to our favorite rooftop restaurant, drinking champagne and staring up at the stars, waiting for one to fall so we could make a wish that never came.
The memories crash so hard I can barely breathe, and I break into tears.
We hold on to the happy memories because they are easier to carry.
It hurts less that way. It is less painful to picture them smiling, to keep them alive in places untouched by grief, to hope they are somewhere out there still smiling.
But are they? Do their tears get wiped away somewhere beyond this life, or do they simply find each other sad?
The worst part is having no answers.
Death never answers anything. It doesn’t leave behind the things you want to know. It just takes, and takes, and leaves the rest of us orphaned, heartbroken, afraid.
Maybe in some horrible, twisted way, it was meant to be. But what if we don’t want it to be?
The ones who are left behind don’t get to ask questions. They just keep living. They breathe through the fear, through the memories, through the shape of the life the dead would have wanted for them. But the dead can’t feel. They can’t hear. They are just gone.
And the part of us that lived inside those memories goes with them.
How are you supposed to stay the same after that kind of loss?
You can’t.
It changes you. Even when it feels like you are dying a little more each day, you still have to wake up and live the next one.
Because that is life.
One moment you are here. Next, you are gone.
And in the end, we all leave alone, not hand in hand, but one by one.
Maybe that’s why I’m afraid of haunted houses. Because if I ever stood face to face with someone who knew what death felt like, I would ask the question I have carried for too long.
And I’m not ready to hear the answer.
And the living... People can hurt you in the worst ways possible, and somehow you don’t get to carry that pain honestly, because the moment they die, pity steps in and silences everything else.
You are left holding the wound, and eventually it turns into a scar.
You live with it, and get used to the pain of it, even while it keeps eating at you from the inside.
That is what trauma is.
And when we finally try to speak about it, we are called crazy. Misunderstood.
So, tell me, God. Why were we made to be this complicated, this cruel?
I have lost hope for goodness.
But maybe that is just me.
I take a few steps back and sit down on the bench, staring at the candles as the flames dip low, then rise again, burning side by side. Tears keep spilling down my face. I’m falling apart all over again, piece by piece, and no one can put me back together because I’m alone.
Rosewood House can’t scare ghosts away, because I’m the scariest ghost of them all.
I’m not angry anymore. I have gone so numb I can’t even find the shape of who I used to be. My wholeness is gone. There is only emptiness now.
Only numbness.
Three nights and three mornings come and go, and with them come calls and letters. Every single answer is the same. Heavy breathing. Not a single word on the other end. And outside my window, it’s always the same view. A man leaning against the tree, looking toward the house, smoking cigarettes.
I’m starting to think he might be a ghost. Someone who used to live here, someone whose life wasn’t pretty, who forgot who he was, and now all he gets to do is torment the living.
I’m still scared. The line still doesn’t work, and every letter I send asking for help is answered by The Caller, warning me that help won’t come for me. I still don’t know why he is haunting me.
The house is still quiet during the day and loud at night.
The only difference now is the thin layer of dust over the shelves.
I keep hoping to see Margaret and Victor, to go outside into town, maybe find a more comfortable nightgown to sleep in, or shorter jeans, maybe even something with color instead of the black and white shirts I have now.
But mostly, I want to ask them about the man. I want to know why he could be interested in someone like me. I want to ask him myself, but every time I find the courage to step outside and walk to the tree, he disappears.
The open window lets in the sound of Victor’s car getting closer to the driveway, and because the past two days have been sunny, the stones and mud have dried. I can hear the crackle beneath the tires as the car approaches.
I stand from the bed and tuck L.R.’s diary beneath it, then slowly walk out of the bedroom and toward the stairs. By the time I reach the top, Margaret is already walking inside.
“Good morning, Miss Vale,” she says, her eyes scanning the letters in her hands. “How was your week?”
“Okay,” I say, walking down the stairs toward her.
“Good.” She lifts her gaze to me, then turns and disappears into the hallway that leads to the staff’s kitchen.
My lips part. I want to call her back, to ask her about the man, but she’s gone before I can find the courage to speak. I keep moving, my eyes drifting to the bottom of the stairs.
“Aurelia.”
The male voice makes my head lift. I look toward the door and see Victor standing there with a bucket of garden tools in his hand.
“Huh?”
“Are you alright?” he asks in his Spanish accent.
“Yes.” I force a fake smile, and nod at him.
“Want to join me in the garden while Miss Danvers works inside?” he asks, motioning toward the door.
The sun is shining a little too bright today, and my eyes squint as I approach the front door. My hand rises to my forehead, trying to block the light, and I follow him outside. The moment my foot touches the ground, I notice his hair and beard are no longer black. They are dark brown.
“You’re not much of a talker,” he says as he hands me a pair of gloves, then nods toward the rose bushes. “For the roses.”
“I talk more when I get to know a person,” I say, walking beside him.
“That’s fair.”
“Can I ask you something, Mr. De la Cruz?” I stop and turn to him, my hand still shielding my eyes from the sun.
“Please, call me Victor.” He smiles and keeps walking, and I follow.
“I keep seeing this man outside my window.” I point toward the tree near the cliffs on the right. “There.”
Victor looks toward the tree, one eyebrow lifting. “What’s he like?”
“He’s always in a black suit,” I say. “I think his hair is dark, but I’ve never seen his face.”
He stays quiet for a moment, staring at the tree.
“It’s strange,” he says. Then he goes silent again before turning to me, his eyes locking with mine.
“The owner had a brother. He grew up in England, and he came here at some point.” He smacks his lips.
“I used to see him with the owner’s wife, sneaking around. Then one night, he just disappeared.”
“Do you think it’s him?” I ask, tilting my head.
“Perhaps,” he says. “Perhaps it’s someone else watching the house. It was listed for sale before, so maybe they just wanted to see if it was in good condition.”
He kneels, takes a tool from his bucket, and digs into the ground, rubbing the soil between his fingertips. “People here come and go. Everyone is curious to see if the stories are true.”
“What stories?”
He lifts his head from the soil and looks at me. “That the house is haunted.”
I swallow.
“By Lilibeth?”
He chuckles, but he doesn’t answer.
“How was she?” I crouch down and pull the gloves over my hands. “Miss Danvers still respects her very much.”
“Everyone respected Lilibeth. She was a strong woman. Confident, too.” He tilts his head toward me.
“But...” He stops. “She was so lost. She would leave at night, and who knows where she went, then come back an hour or two later, and the next morning she wouldn’t be herself.
Mr. Rosewood worked so much he was never home, and Helena. ..”
“Was she the daughter?”
“Yes,” he says. “His first wife died in childbirth, giving birth to Helena. Lilibeth was the closest thing to a mother she ever had.”
His eyes drift back to the roses as he digs the hole and lowers one of the roots into the ground. “People say a house holds memories, and this one holds nightmares. Everyone is afraid of it.”
“We should be more afraid of people than ghosts,” I say, helping him steady the roses.
“True,” he says, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, “but the ghosts here are just as deadly.”
Footsteps draw near, grass and dirt crunching under each step.
“What are you two blabbering about?” Margaret asks.
“Life,” I say, looking at the ground. Then I tilt my head toward her. “Death.”
She lifts a brow. “Aren’t you two rays of sunshine?” She takes two steps back, then lowers herself into the chair. “Did you get any calls or mail I should know about?”
I look at Victor, and he gives the slightest shake of his head, like he knows something I do not.
“No,” I say quickly. “Just me and the old house.” I force a smile.
“Oh, great.” She claps her hands together. “We’ve had some strange calls before, and I forgot to mention you shouldn’t answer them after midnight.”
A lump rises in my throat, and I glance at Victor.
Margaret stands and comes closer again. “You two finish here, and I’ll prepare a list of the things we need from town.”
She walks away slowly, and I turn to Victor, staring at him. “What are you not telling me?” I whisper.
He gets to his feet fast, brushing dirt from his knees. His eyes stay on the ground, avoiding mine. “I’m not allowed to say,” he says, then hurries toward the house.
My gaze drops to the roses, then to the ground beneath them, as if the earth might be holding answers. That feeling comes again. The sharp, crawling sense that someone is watching me.
I lift my eyes.
The man stands beside the tree.
Watching me.