Chapter One
S y l v i a S w a n
I pull my sweater closer to my body as the autumn wind seeps into my exposed skin, my hands shaking as I grip the cotton material.
My mother is gone. Not running errands or with her friends. She’s dead. Rotting six feet under the dirt in front of me. I stare at the people gathered around us as he grips my shoulder.
His calloused hands dig into my sweater with an unsteady grip. I can feel each sob wracking through him, each pull of his lungs as he gulps down air but inside, I don’t feel anything. No sadness or grief, just emptiness.
I look down at the wooden coffin, dyed in a deep black. Its edges are sharp, pointed, and the brass handles speak of its age. Father made it to fit her, and he did so well. They had already closed it and covered her with dirt, her body vanishing like it had never been a part of this world.
“Honey, do you want to say any last words before we go?” His voice is distant as I turn to look up at him.
“Sure.” I feel myself nod and his hand leaves my shoulder.
I walk directly in front of her grave, but I don’t remember anything I say.
I know I stutter a few times, promising to always love and remember her.
“Let’s get going. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”He helps me down the brown wooden pedestal.
Many people wave as we walk off, leaving her behind to rot. Their faces are filled with sympathy, tears, and pity.
Pity that I don’t ask for. It wouldn’t bring my mother back or replace the last few hours I had to endure.
It wouldn’t erase the image of her corpse from my eyes as I found her dead, cold, and bloodied body in our parlor.
Her clothes were gone; her gaze was soulless.
Whoever did it left the scene gory, not caring about the family finding her.
It couldn’t have been a robbery. It was much more than that. A designated kill, rape, and victim. They took her from me and left behind something vindictive. Something my own father won’t say aloud.
He could barely face me as I broke down. The screams that left my throat were inhumane—they were animalistic, desperate to have her breathing in my arms. I called upon all the Gods I could think of, even Satan himself and no one answered.
No one helped her.
I step into his beat-up Volkswagen and wait until the car starts before I say anything. The hum of the engine and the heat blowing through the vents ease my nerves and the chill throughout me.
“Father, I can’t promise you that I’ll be ok because I won’t. I won’t rest until her killers are found.” There's a slight croak to my voice and I resist the urge to pull on the loose strings of my black jeans.
“I know dear, but please be careful. You’re no superhero nor a cop. You can’t face that man head on. You could get hurt.” I look at him out of the corner of my eyes, suspicion growing in the back of my mind.
“Who said it was a man? It could've been a woman or both. We don’t even know yet. I'd rather face them myself, avenge her death, if that’s the last thing I do.” My voice raises just an octave, giving away how I feel on the inside.
The nothingness from earlier has turned into rage and I won’t keep quiet.
“I’m sorry, honey. I–.” He shakes his head furiously and a deadly silence settles over us.
End of the conversation as always. Before today father was the best of them all. He would leave for work occasionally for weeks but always come back with a smile on his face and gifts in hand.
He treated her with a certain delicacy that I could only dream of. He was a great father and husband, so where did that change? What happened to her and why does he seem like the biggest suspect?
“Sylvia.” He huffs and I turn to him confused.
“Yeah?” I mumble.
“I was saying, we’ll be moving to Grimmwood early tomorrow morning. I know we already talked about this and you’re not happy with the move, but I can’t stay in that home knowing what happened there. I’ve already enrolled you into their Academy.”
I nod and turn back to look out the window. He exhales in annoyance but doesn’t say anything else.
I pick at the black paint on my nails. The questions reverberating against my skull and depending on answers I don’t have, yet.
I stare at the brick homes we pass, each one mimicking the other. Red door, brown door. The same homes I grew up beside. Their shrubs are cut to perfection and the happy families inside seem great, but they aren’t.
I want to move but knowing it’ll be without her, I hate it. I hate that we have to leave her behind in a town full of secrets and lies. Her soul doesn’t deserve that.
We pull up to our home. The brick has faded and softened over the years, mildew crawling between the cracks. The windows are warped and blurry, not allowing for viewers to see inside and the wooden front door is weathered beyond repair, the hinges groaning as I pull it open.
The scent of pine and the boring tan walls greet me as I walk in, father right behind me. Boxes litter the oak floors along with trash, ready to be moved and cleaned tomorrow.
I climb the creaking floors up to my room, leaving him in the parlor.
I can’t face the kitchen now or ever. Each step feels heavier the closer I get to my room.
I don’t know why, but this place feels dead.
The floral wallpaper doesn’t fascinate me anymore.
It just reminds me of the times her and I bonded over its beauty.
Amos slithers through my cracked door and up to my feet. He purrs loudly as he rubs against my leg. I slowly bend down and cradle his large body in my arms. He’s the one soul I can trust. The one who saw everything that happened to her.
Everything in the last few hours has become a blur.
I’m moving away from the town I called home for the past 22 years.
Father is distraught, mourning the loss of a woman he loved for the past 35 years.
I know it will break him, I know he’ll never be the same without her but I also think he knows something. The guilt in his eyes isn't mistaken.
“That will be your new school, dear.” Father points toward a towering black gate. Across the front of the steel is Grimmwood Academy of Arts, in bold gold lettering. The only part of the school I can see is the roof as we pass. Its pointed arches graze the heavens.
“It looks nice.” I mumble.
The drive here wasn’t too awful but the town is definitely—something. Its sign is decorated with a classical font.
It all screams old money with its Victorian homes that reach the clouds. Some of the beautiful architecture has fallen in on itself, moss covering the intricate stonework.
We’ve passed a few churches, their cathedral spires sculpted perfectly representing the prestige and tradition. So many driveways are lined in cobblestone and arching trees, welcoming whoever enters.
“This is the town. You should visit this evening to get a feel of our new home.” He lets down my window just a tad, letting in the crisp autumn air.
The warm air inside the car immediately vanishes as I let the window all the way down, looking out at the old town.
The buildings are made from limestone or brick, each faded into a grey-red.
The names of each place are engraved into the front of them.
One place catches my eye with its pastel colors and chalk sign out front.
Free books.
I grin. Who doesn’t love a charity shop?
“I know just the place I’ll start at.” I whisper. Some of the rage from earlier eases out of me and for once I feel a flicker of happiness.
This town offers new beginnings with a delicate feel to it. Its hauntingly beautiful architecture bestows tradition and familiarity. It's home.
“I knew you’d love it here.” He says and smiles at me. I muster the best smile I can, my lips rubbing against my teeth with awkwardness.
“It’s beautiful, nothing like Windale. There's so much character here.” I stare in awe at the shops with chairs sitting outside, even as people walk to and from, it remains quiet. The calming atmosphere pauses my racing heart.
I pull Amos closer to me. His purrs vibrate against my stomach as he sleeps. His body curled into a ball on my lap. I continue to run my hand down his mane as comfort. His brass eyes peel open with a flutter and close once he knows it's me.
“I know you’re going to love the Academy. It’s for art majors, your favorite. You don’t start for another three days. You’ll be a tad late to the party but you're smart enough to catch up.” I grimace at my father’s words.
Don’t get me wrong I do love art, with all my heart, but smart? Yeah, that's not me. Put me in a category with the fly on the wall, observing but not listening.
“Sure.” I mumble.
He pulls up to an old gate. One of the gate doors barely hangs on to the latch that keeps them shut.
“Go open it, please?” He says as he puts the car in park.
I mentally roll my eyes but get out and pull the latch free. The pole instantly sags, digging into the dirt path. I yank on it until it frees itself, slinging me back into the gate.
I groan as I push off the steel pole, my back instantly flaring with an intense amount of pain. I rub it to soothe it and curse under my breath.
“Seems like a shithole already.” I mumble to myself as he pulls up until he passes me. He stops and I hop back in.
“Sorry honey, I didn’t think it’d be that bad. Let's leave it open.” I nod in agreement and the pain in my back settles to a small ache.
He rides up the dirt path for a few minutes, passing a number of trees, before he pulls up to the home. It’s actually not too bad. It’s a harsh black Victorian home with a statue out front. The wings on the angel statue spread out and cascade the home in a soft beauty.
“Wow.” I whisper as I step out.
The structure seems to loom over me, creating darkened shadows around us.
Mournful black paint covers the entire space, including the door and tall cylindrical towers that jut out from the main structure.
Pitched gables intersect creating a maze of a roof, like an ever shifting puzzle.
Narrow lancet and bay windows cover the front along with a porch that’s old wood, dyed black, and wraps around the side.
“Wait till you see the inside. Go ahead, I’ll start grabbing our things.” I turn hesitantly towards him, wanting to help, but sprint towards the home with pure excitement.
“Be careful on those steps, they're very damaged. I’ll have to rebuild a few of them.” He yells behind me.
“Yes sir.” I yell back.
When I reach the steps I take them two at a time, making sure to avoid the darkened areas covered in mold and mildew.
I get up to the large door and peek through the narrow window but can’t make out anything.
I grab the door handle with a soft grip and twist. The door clicks open with a shallow creak, not as bad as our old home at least.
As I step in, the same chill from outside is within these walls. It's cold and dusty, but nothing we can’t fix.
The oak floors creak in some spots as I walk around. The first thing is the foyer, painted in blood red. Heavy velvet curtains cover the windows and a large dresser sits to the left, which I'm assuming is for our shoes.
I keep walking, reaching the parlor next.
The furniture is covered in plastic and the walls are also painted with the same blood red, one wall covered in angel wallpaper.
The same curtains are in here and I walk over to the furniture.
I peel back a piece just to see what’s underneath and a sigh leaves my lips.
It’s a loveseat or a chair covered in a deep black velvet.
Its wooden edges are carved gloriously and angels are engraved into the wood.
The owners obviously loved angels and don’t get me wrong I’m fascinated. Everything matches perfectly and the angels add a soft ambiance to the dark space.
Father clambers in with boxes, hitting the wall a few times before settling them onto the floor.
“What do you think? A little cleaning and it’ll be home." He smiles as he looks around.
The word home causes a soft pang in my chest but I ignore it. Mother is dead, not coming back, and I must face that reality.
“I love it, father. It’s stunning.” I tell him exactly what I’m thinking. I can’t lie the place is to die for.
“Well I’m glad. I bought it, so it's ours and one day yours.” I grimace at his word play but nod. “I’ll bring in the boxes, you just put them in the area they need to be put up, how does that sound?”
“Agree, if it's too heavy I’ll push it to the side for later.” I say and grab one of the boxes he's set in the foyer.
“Got it.” He struts outside and I look at the black sharpie written on the side of the box.
Kitchen.