Chapter 16
Emory
"To choose between life and letting go is the hardest decision of all."
As my eyes flutter open, their movements are quick like butterfly wings. I allow my vision to clear before I rise like the dead to sit upright on the edge of the bed. The last thing I remember was Oliver telling me a fairy tale.
Scanning the room, my gaze pauses for a moment when I notice a rose that is pinning something beneath it, and I lean over to see that it is a piece of paper. The calligraphy is stunning, like the script you find on scrolls at the Vatican—or something like that.
Is this how it's always going to be, receiving mysterious letters from this... man?
I chuckle slightly, as I twist my torso, to reach across the bed and confiscate the objects. Once in my hand, I smell the flower, grinning from ear to ear, as the floral scent invades my sinuses. Then, I open the note and read it.
Leaping from the memory foam mattress, I spring to the wardrobe, with as much excitement as a child has on the morning of their birthday, knowing the entire day is going to be about them.
Learning my lesson from last time—and the fact it is still measurably dark outside and horrifyingly cold in the room already—I find something a little more flexible and less revealing.
Throwing my hair up in a loose bun I set forth from my room, on an expedition to the garden.
Just as I am closing the door, I hear crashing and a sequence of loud thuds.
Fighting the urge to investigate, while my legs are incapacitated—like hinges that have gone a long time without oil, exposed to the weather.
Finally, I can move, and I find myself skipping down the grand staircase. I can't help but glance back.
I knew I shouldn’t have. As I turn, I feel a rush of air—cold and staticky—causing my hair to stand on end.
Then, a fog begins to rise and shift around me.
I am glued to my spot, unable... to... even…
breathe. My eyes dart from side to side, lingering long enough to recover their focus, then blur again. Suddenly, a face manifests before me.
What am I seeing right now?
Is it looking at me?
The phantom being is gone just as quickly as he had formed, I backstep bruising my back on the banister. Before fear has the chance to cripple me again, I turn and sprint out of the manor to the garden. Making it to the archway, mesmerized as the rose bush materializes in front of me.
Aw fuck.
A vine protruding from the earth trips me, but I catch myself, landing on my hands and knees. Once I steady my breathing, I pick myself up, and brush myself off, walking forward to the lone bush of roses that matched the one left in my room—progressively growing in the distance.
Now, at its base, I observe the stone... my eyes fall on the scripture—I drop my voice to a low octave, my words are breathy as I read it aloud.
“T’was an age of miracles, it was an age of art, it was an age of excess, and it was an age of satire.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Such a beautiful memorial. Hers and my great-grandfathers' names are forever etched in stone. Upon looking closer, hidden in the shadows of the well-kept rose bush was another placard. Careening closer, I read:
“Eternally shall I be a thorn upon the stem of thy Rose.”
Here lies:
Oliver Albert Gaston
1899-1929
Adrenaline rushes through my veins as my heart rate quickens.
Flashes of every image I had of him flooding my mind, distorting it, detaching all rational thought.
I am startled by a shuffle in the bushes.
Swiveling, I position myself so that I can flee—if necessary.
A sudden scream breaks the silence in the now rancid air.
I bolt for the archway—that is, until a man breaks through the darkness, nearly knocking me to the ground.
Thankfully, I still had a quickness about me in my impaired state and moved before he could.
Enthralled by the events that are playing out before me, I watch as he trips on the same vine I did—and hits his head on the stone beneath the roses.
Goose-bumps kiss my skin when the same fog I encountered inside, coils and builds at my feet.
Wind brushes against my side as the misted man approaches, his posture indicating dominance, his action portraying something more monstrous.
I feel a mixture of fear and curiosity, coercing me to stay rooted to the spot despite the chaos unfolding around me.
The ethereal fog intensifies, as does the tension between the two men.
My heart tries to break from the cage it’s trapped in as the earth stops for an instant.
The second man emerges from the mist, as if he were made of it.
He glances over his shoulder—his eyes piercing and sorrowful—paired with a presence both haunting and mesmerizing.
I take a tentative step backward—my breath shaky, as the air grows colder—and the spectral vision reaches out a translucent hand.
Our eyes lock, as a rush of images swarms my mind, like angry bees after their hive has been knocked down.
This man of smoke has features akin to that of my father, the same eyes too.
Is he the ghost of my great-grandfather?
The only difference in his eyes was the weight of the sorrow they carried. It has come to my attention that this man isn’t the only one taking on the appearance of being translucent—the other man looks as though he has a pulsating glow surrounding him.
I watched as the man who was the aggressor turned from me to focus his attention back on the man engulfed by the spectral light.
The scurrying he does at his attacker’s feet, as he tries to escape, has my stomach seething.
The offender stalks after his prey with slow, beastly movements.
This isn't just someone trespassing. No, this man has wronged him.
Then, in the blink of an eye, his fingers convoluted around the other man's throat, lifting him off the ground.
The smaller man bucks and fights, but he is no match.
Then, with all the force he can muster, the bulky one slams the other’s back into the stone.
Running his face over its surface, then tossing him back to the ground like a raggedy Andy doll.
No words, no context as to why this display of anger has broken out.
He continues to land punch after punch. Then, finally, he speaks—or rather spits.
“I will make you suffer the same way they did. You have robbed me of everything, you low life!” One good fist to the gut, and the human punching bag falls to the ground.
However, the beating doesn’t stop there.
He brings his foot down on the victim’s ankle, a deafening crack calls to the fading stars as the morning was fast approaching.
“Good. For. Nothing!” Raising his foot again, this time—it's the knee.
The sound of the kneecap shattering echoes through the air, slightly muffled by the surrounding shrubbery.
“Answer me you, fucking bastard! Oh, wait-” Stopping to chuckle, his tone drenched in sarcasm.
“I must make sure you are deserving of that title. Bastard!” He turns his victims face with his boot, as though using his hand is beneath him, or touching him is infectious.
“Just as I thought, no mark. Your daddy wasn’t one of them, was he?
” My heart is racing, watching these events transpire.
“I’m guessing your daddy wasn’t the one damned by that foul bloodline.” He licks his lips, “No. No, it was your mommy. Yes—that must be it—for the mark to be passed down, you must have the right family ties.”
Family ties? Mark? What is he talking about?
“You must be born of a son to claim the family name.” Turning his head, he pulls back his shirt collar, revealing a sigil burned on his skin—A circle with a cross in the middle, as tendrils branch from its edges.
“So what? Did your misogynistic grandaddy tell you that if you hunted us down and finished us off, that he would welcome you back with open arms and brand you—then all would be well?” The man on the ground gurgles in response, as blood pours from his face—due to a broken nose and jaw from being raked over a rocky surface.
The assailant pulls something off his hip, slowly teetering his hand back and forth, as the object loosens in his hand and unravels—falling and coiling around his feet.
What is that? A lasso?
He swings his arm like a pendulum—a raucous sound arises as metal scrapes over stone. The man on the ground must have had the same recollection as I did because he quickly rolls to his stomach and attempts to army crawl in the opposite direction to get away as fast as possible.
“Oh no, little Beast. You aren't getting away that fast.” He draws his hand back, then immediately snaps it forward. A loud crack pierces my ears just as a bolt of lightning flashes, gracing the sky with its brilliance. A roaring crash of thunder drowns out the screams that follow… steel meets flesh, ripping the screams from its targets’ defiant lips.
I watch as the other guy stalks after his target using the hydra-like whip as a torture device.
Who did he have to kill to have this man so unhinged, so... primal?
“You are going to suffer just as they did. I am going to make you beg to whatever Gods you pray to, baby boy. I will make you. My. Bitch.” the guy on the ground whimpers as the other one drops to a crouch, recoiling three times—an indication of knee injuries.
Then, ramming his hand to his victim’s face, he smashes it between his massive fingers, then dips his head further, so his eyes are level with his victim’s—he continues.
His voice, a humorous cry, “You are going to wish you stayed away.”
He begins to wrap something around the other guy's neck, and that is. When I recognize the face coated in blood—Peter? Staring at the sky in fear, I hear the other guy begin to hum the song “Edelweiss" before dragging Peter out of the garden and disappearing into the manor.
Chasing after them, my movements lagging…
the hedge walls of the garden… appear to be…
closing in on me. Finally, I break through the arch, and I glance to my left, to my surprise, I catch Oliver’s eye.
He must have been leaving the library or heard the commotion and was coming to see what was going on.
I look around and notice the misted figures have completely vanished.
Finally, I pull through my mental fog, and I run to Oliver’s open arms—the icy rain stinging my face.
He doesn't shift as he catches me, and my face collides with his chest. A welcoming padded wall while his arms act as a makeshift straitjacket.
What I just saw was insane, and if I don’t talk to someone, I am going to lose my mind for real.
"Oliver, I need to tell you something.” I look up at him, “I am sorry I didn’t meet you at the dress display. I-”
He places a finger to my lips, “Not here.” His deep voice overpowers mine, and he takes my hand, guiding me into the library. A glance at Niven and she is terrified.
What is she afraid of? Did they see it as well?
I can’t help but feel there is more to this than meets the eye, and everyone else knows so much more than I do.
As we move deeper into the library, the weight of the chilling encounter settles heavily upon me.
Oliver's grip is firm but reassuring as he leads me through the labyrinth of shelves.
I take in the smell of aged paper as it fills the air, using it as aromatherapy.
The distant echo of our footsteps amplified my racing thoughts, each one more frantic than the last. Sheltered among the towering books, I feel a fleeting sense of safety, but the haunting images of the brutal scene play relentlessly in my mind.
We reach the nook, and Oliver turns to face me, his eyes searching mine for any trace of the terror I am struggling to articulate.
I draw in a deep breath, ready to confide in him—knowing that the horrors I have witnessed are far beyond any nightmare I could have imagined.
The air is thick with unspoken words—I try to speak again, but the library's shadows seem to close in, forming a cocoon around us as I recount the events that will forever alter the course of this fateful night.
“Oliver, I saw Peter?” his eyes broaden as his brows furrow. A strange amalgam of fear and rage.
Was there something he knew about Peter that he wasn’t telling me? Could he explain the mist figures I have been seeing?