Chapter 15
C h a p t e r F i f t e e n
S y l v i a S w a n
As we come up to my home, his eyes widen. His gaze sweeps over the snow covered porch and up to the roof that seems to bow with the heavy weight of ice.
“It’s…as beautiful as I remembered.” His eyes trace the carved frame of the home down to the snow covered trim.
“I was just as surprised when Father and I got here. Our old home was nowhere near as pretty.” I smile and unlock the door.
He follows me inside, looking over the mantle he had fixed and the deep velvet sofas that sit in the parlor.
“Mr. Angel had a real vision. It’s like walking into the 1800’s.” He mumbles as he traces his fingers across the detailed angels carved into the stairs.
“I agree,” I say as I pick up Amos. He purrs and watches Alistair with uncertainty.
“You know how I mentioned there's a story behind this home.” His gaze flickers to me but immediately goes back to my home.
“Yes and I still want to know.” I lead him upstairs to my room and his eyes widen as he takes in the dark colors.
“Well they say Mr. Angel lived here long ago, probably before we were born,” he says and walks to my terrace and opens the curtains to look out at the town. Everything is drowned in white and you can spot a few people walking down the street.
“He never left the home and kept to himself. He had a delivery truck come here for his food and toiletries. People say they used to see him through the windows late at night with a single lamp on, writing or pacing around as if something was worrying him.” My eyebrows crease at his words.
Is my home haunted? I want to ask but I let him continue his tangent.
“He eventually died…right inside this home. His body was found in the master bedroom, cold and swollen. Most people assumed he died of old age or loneliness but others say he saw something as a teen that drove him insane.” He turns to me with his eyebrows lifted as if I may have something to say.
“That’s rough,” I say with a mouth full of pie. I give a small piece of bread to Amos, who scarfs it down with no thoughts.
“The worst of it all is the rumors that spread after. No one wanted this home because they believed it was haunted. A couple moved in a little after him and said doors opened, certain spots of the home would get cold all of a sudden, or they’d hear whispers in the night.
” He shrugs as if he doesn’t believe in ghosts or apparitions.
“What do you think?” I say and plop down on my bed.
He sits down at my desk and picks up an old picture of me as a kid.
“Mmm, I think that homes remember people,” he says as he lightly places the picture down and turns in the chair to look at me. “What do you think?”
“If there is a ghost or the home just remembers Mr. Angel, I think he’s polite. Either that or my mother keeps him at bay.” I chuckle and he joins in. The sweet baritone of his laugh tickles me even more.
“That’s a good way to think about it,” he gets out between laughs.
I shrug and my eyes slide to the notebook on my side table. Amos curls into a ball on the black loveseat near the terrace doors and we fall into a comfortable silence.
“So, you may be wondering why I asked you here?” I slide off the bed and grab the clippings from my satchel in the closet.
When I come back out, Alistair has taken off his jacket and placed it over the back of my chair. His pale muscular arms are patiently settled in his lap as he leans forward.
“I hope you don’t mind if I get comfortable?” He asks as he begins to take his boots off.
“Of course not. You’ll be here for a while anyway.” I place the clippings on the thick rug and throw another piece of wood into the hearth. It soars and the flames decorate my room in reds and oranges.
“What are these?” His brows furrow as he finishes taking his boots off and sits on the rug near the clippings. I can see his eyes scanning the pages, confused.
I sit across from him, the clippings are settled between us in a stack with thread around them. I untie it and spread them out in front of us.
“These are newspaper clippings from my old town, Windale.” I pause, preparing to reveal the truth to Alistair. “My mother didn’t die the way the town said. She knew someone was after her because she was digging into something she had no business in.”
He doesn’t interrupt me and his gaze stays on me as I talk.
“She had started collecting these. I don’t know for how long, but they’re murders, disappearances, all in our town that connect to the mill that burned down.” I slide the newspapers toward him and he flips through each one, reading fast but carefully.
“These dates are spaced out between months and years.” He says slowly and sits them down. “They spaced them deliberately so no one could tell they’re planned. So, the mill is the source of all deaths? How strange.”
“Yes, exactly what I was thinking.” My hands tremble as I collect them into a pile.
I reach across my nightstand and grab the leather bound book. I look at the deep symbol and my heart skips a beat. I can only hope I’m not getting Alistair in trouble by showing him it.
“I went back to my old town a few days ago and a lady named Lilith gave me this notebook. She didn’t know my mother personally but she had given her some information a few days before she was killed,” I say as I hand him the book.
He examines it and his finger traces the symbol the same way I had when I first saw it. He opens it slowly and his mouth forms into an ‘o’ as he tries to read it.
“Once marked, the distance means nothing. Us Willow Regents will catch what’s ours.” He looks up at me confused. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I haven’t studied it myself but I think that means they are always watching and no matter how far you run they’ll catch you. I think it's some type of cult?” I rub my neck and take off the coat I'm wearing.
“I agree. The Willow Regents is capitalized like its a group name.” He points at the sentence and flips the page.
He jerks back as he takes in the odd symbols across the page. The same one from the cover is in the middle and other ones surround it.
“I wonder what this means,” He mumbles.
I point to the one in the middle, its three slashes seeming to glare at me.
“I had a dream last night and remembered seeing this symbol in my father’s study. Lilith told me my mother also remembered it and I guess it peeked at my memory. Back then it wasn't something I noticed as I never really went in there.” I admit.
“Your father knows about this?” He looks up with an intense gaze and his voice heightens.
“I don’t know what he knows but I think my mother did.”
“So, what do you need my help with?” He whispers and places the book down in front of us.
I look at him with dread and hope in my eyes. I hope he’ll help me but I’m also dreading asking him. What if I get Alistair killed? I won’t be able to live with that.
“I don’t want to get you involved if it's too much but I need help, Alistair. My father has officially pushed her out of the picture. I know whoever the shadowed man is he’s already following me but what if it costs you your life?” I ask softly.
His gaze stays on me, unflinching as he reaches out to grip my hand in his. My finger tips are cold against the back of his hand.
“I won’t let you face this alone. I’m grateful you’ve shared this with me and trust me enough to help you.” He smiles. It’s sincere and I pull him into a hug.
“Thank you.” I breathe in his scent. It’s subtle but clean and it eases my nerves. His fingers coil around my waist with protective strength and my stomach stirs.
“Anything for you Sylvia.” He pulls back and his hands fall from my waist to his side.
I stare at Alistair knowing I could never give him my heart and my stomach churns with something sick. He’s too kind to deal with my brutal emotions.
After hours of looking through the clippings Alistair turns to me, his eyebrows lifted as he holds up a newspaper. My gaze at the darkening sky shifts to him and I blink away the tears that threaten to fall.
“This name.” He pauses as he looks down at the notebook. “It’s repeated twice.”
My heart lurches in my chest as I lean forward to get a better look. “Where?”
“Here.” He slides the notebook across the rug and points at the name, P. Walker, and taps the newspaper in his hand right below the title. The same name twice but in different towns and time periods.
“The article summarized basically admits he was a witness and was questioned but then…nothing. He vanishes.” He quickly looks up at my distraught expression before handing me the newspaper.
I flip through the pages feeling as though they whisper to me when I come to a stop on the fourth page.
In the margins her handwriting is present, a note I hadn’t noticed at first, ask P.
Walker about the mill. The room seems to tighten around me as I gulp.
My gaze traces that same page and a small paper has his address on it, taped to the newspaper.
“Here, read this too.” He points to a small paragraph in the notebook.
“Walker knows where the doors are and he’s still alive. Find him, kill him, make him vanish.” As I say the words aloud it gives them the feeling of a mythical incantation that's not supposed to be vocalized.
“I wonder if they ever found him?” He questions as he turns the notebook back to him.
“I don’t think so, if they did I think they would’ve crossed out his name as they did the others?”
“Not if it was lost before they found him.” He tsks.
My mouth forms an ‘o’ in realization, he's right. Had it not been for him I’d still be nowhere with a notebook, clippings, and letters full of clues.
“Have you opened any of the letters yet?” He flips the rough tan envelope in his hand and stares at the beautiful red wax seal that is broken from being opened in a hurry.
“No, not yet,” I admit.
“Do you want to right now or do you want to see if P. Walker is still at the address in this newspaper?”
I toss the options in my head and tell him to go with the latter. It’s best to do one thing at a time before we over do ourselves and get confused.
“My mother left a path and we’ll finish walking it for her—for closure,” I say softly and Amos meows from his corner. His brass eyes sparkle with admiration and I smile.
Alistair’s nod is certain. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes before a thought dawns on me.
“Now that I think about it, who's running your shop?” I ask with a laugh.
“Oh! My uncle’s there. I was helping him wash clothes before putting them on the shelf. I told him I wanted to see a friend.” He chuckles and pushes his blond hair out of his eyes. The fact that he considers me as a friend warms my heart.
“Ahh ok. Are you feeling hungry?” I ask and stand up from my crossed leg position on the floor. My knees crack as I stretch and he joins me. His back pops multiple times as he turns left and right.
“Sure am.” He rubs his stomach in circles and I know the feel of abs beneath his hand is hard.