Ravenwood in Red Bluff, Colorado—Present Day
She didn’t know what possessed her to drop everything and come here when she’d received that letter. She’d turned down her first lucrative chance at a good career to do so, one that promised to showcase her photography.
For what? For this?
Blowing a little puff of air and gripping the wheel with her left hand, Morgan turned down the radio with her right before returning her concentration back to driving her old, powder-blue convertible Volkswagen Beetle, straight down Main Street in the sleepy little town of her childhood home.
At twenty-four, this was the first time she’d come back here. No one blamed her when she’d said she needed to go. After all, a few short days ago, she hadn’t even known this town existed, hadn’t remembered any of this—before that manila envelope arrived.
That one note changed everything.
Though early in the evening, few people braved the rainy weather of the limited number of streets running through the small town of Red Bluff. She didn’t expect to find anyone out-and-about in this wet, anyway, or the dwindling light of the setting sun.
She hated the quiet.
Quiet reminded her that she’d been set adrift—all over again.
For the briefest moment, Morgan closed her eyes against the burning of unshed tears. How could everyone be locked away behind the doors of their homes by eight, anyway? She bit down on her lip, dashing at the tear that broke free and slipped down her cheek. Well, hell, maybe she wanted to see people out-and-about—so she didn’t have to feel so alone.
Yeah, well, she hadn’t wanted to come here, either.
She bit her lip for a second time, harder this time. Everything in her life seemed to work together, almost to the point as to conspire against her to bring her to this precise spot, at this exact moment, practically shoving her down this road.
She hadn’t come willingly. She’d practically come kicking and screaming.
Morgan rounded the corner at the old stone church and drove to the end of the cul-de-sac, pulling to a stop at the curb in front of the large, old house.
She glanced toward the back of her car at her open suitcase, her belongings strewn all over the back seat. She shivered, craning her head to stare out the windshield, trying to take in the enormous, slate-gray stone mansion they called Ravenwood, from where she’d parked the car near the drive. How had this huge, though magnificent, yet, scary, old place managed to get built in this quiet little town, anyway?
Right now, she’d give anything to have one friend to come inside with her.
If the six-foot high stone and wrought-iron fence, with the intimidating, wrought-iron gate bordering the property, gave her second and third thoughts about going in there, the dark windows staring back at her, watching her, pretty much did it for her.
She glanced up at the attic window and tore her gaze away, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Maybe the attic didn’t send her running—but the overly-large Gargoyle statue, on the other side of the gate, almost did.
Had she really played here as a child?
She gawked at the statue, now, her mouth open. Nothing she’d imagined or remember prepared her for this. She’d done everything she could think of to deal with this old house, without having to come back here, when the letter told her that she and her sister inherited her grandmother’s property, and she couldn’t wait to fix and sell it so she could leave.
Gaping at the old manor, Morgan shivered another time, then sighed. Back then, there’d been friends. She sensed it—felt it.
She sighed.
So, shouldn’t she want to stay? Shouldn’t she want to find out what memories lay locked up here? It wasn’t like she had anywhere else to go, nor anywhere she belonged. Didn’t have anyone to go back to, even if there’d been a home she’d left behind, which there wasn’t.
Morgan frowned. Home? She peered at the mansion, biting her lip, again, but couldn’t drum up any desire to give this place a chance. She closed her eyes as the first fingers of lightning snaked the sky, opening them, once more, to peer at the old house through the tears she fought to keep at bay.
She shivered, yet again. How could she live here? Who would want to call this old place home?
Endless holes filled her memory bank, but what little she remembered—since the letter—wasn’t promising. She stared out the rain-covered windshield at the old house she would call her home, for however long it took to put things in order so she could sell it. She shook her head, unsure of how she’d even manage that—when she couldn’t drag herself out of her car to spend one night there, now.
Memories stirred, although she tried to pull her mind away from the dark, yawning hole, luring her in on wispy threads, tugging her firmly toward the edge. Though, she’d only recently started to remember this stuff from her past, now she tapped into old memories, like they’d happened only yesterday.
Morgan trembled as a single tear slipped down her cheek. Happier times played through her mind, like an old theater, with tattered films, of children’s laughter and footsteps, sounding along darkened hallways. They ran giggling, while music played from somewhere down the stairs, singing, come and find us grandma as they stole through the kitchen, snagging hot, gooey, chocolate-chip cookies, from fresh out of the oven, moist and crumbling in their tiny hands.
Morgan reached for the door-handle of her old beetle, hesitating. She froze, caught by the memories that played on, sharp within her mind. Vivid memories of chocolate as she bit into the cookie, staring at her hands, licking the melted chips from her fingers, from where she and her sister stopped to hide beneath the stairs.
Their laughter had given them away….
The town nearly suffocated them with their pity, telling them how sorry they were, saying stuff like poor little things—such a tragedy….
Morgan shuddered as tears lay damp on her cheeks, withdrawing sharply with sick dread from her dark thoughts. She wasn’t ready to go there….
She frowned, staring at the darkened windows of Ravenwood Manor, windows that seemed to watch her, as if waiting to see what she would do. Windows, framed in the same old, gray stone of the house—so large, it seemed more like a mansion. The windows were the eyes of the soul, they said. Well, if that were true, the windows were the eyes of this manor’s soul. The house, itself, taking on a life of its own—watching her—watching it. Remembering the family she hadn’t known existed—and the love….
How could she have forgotten the love?
Their aunt, their mother’s sister, raised her and her sister, but even with her patience, and gentle ways, Morgan realized their grandmother was their saving grace, always smiling, always baking—and still finding time to play fun little games with them….
Visions flashed before her. Morgan saw her grandmother, before her, like it was yesterday, laughing, pretending to look beneath the bed—taking her time to ferret them out from where they hid.
Frowning, Morgan gazed at the old house, broken and overrun with weeds. Had such beautiful memories really happened in this haunted-looking, old house? She pulled away from the pain, that remembering her grandmother seemed to cause her. Caught up, instead, by something else….
Such an amazing aroma…. How odd. She eyed the grounds around the old, gray house. Could she possibly remember smells?
Shaking her head, Morgan closed her eyes, for the briefest of moments, catching the scent of her grandmother’s house, the aroma filling every corner of her senses. She caught another whiff of the fresh baked chocolate-chip cookies that they’d been so quick to steal, but she remembered other smells, as well. Fragrances of spices and fresh-cut flowers….
Her grams used herbs and spices for much more than just cooking, and although she’d placed the fresh-cut flowers in shiny, glass vases throughout the house, that hadn’t been the only reason she’d raised her beautiful gardens.
Sadness swamped Morgan, and for a long moment she choked down the pain, her throat closing around the lump left behind.
What an odd notion. Why did her memories stir up such sorrow—and fear?
Her gaze traveled to the shady, attic windows. For a long moment, she strangled on her breath, staring at the broken middle window, flanked by beautiful, ornate stained-glass windows in a Triquetra Pattern. She’d wondered about that attic, even as a child.
She stopped short, at that. Had she? She’d only started remembering these missing pieces of her life, a few short days ago. Perhaps, she’d made up what she now remembered?
She shook her head. No. She hadn’t made up this old, gray house. Because, here it stood, just like she’d been remembering, these past few days—from the moment she read that letter….
Her gaze moved over the once, well-tended gardens her grandmother loved so much. Now, perennials went to bed beneath the late summer skies, mixed with weeds. Grey clumps of grass grew in patches on the bare dirt, between the stone walkway.
Sighing, she looked back up at the old mansion. It was then her mind registered the two broken windows on the first floor. Alarmed, she scanned the house, another time. There was another broken on the second story. Scowling, she tightened her grip on the door handle. She’d been counting on sleeping here.
Frustrated, now, she fought back against her despair. Well, no hope for it. She had nowhere else to stay. She’d used the little money she had to get here. Now, she’d just have to get her butt out of the car—and find somewhere in that old house to sleep.
Dread crawled up her spine. Apprehension caused her to peek at Ravenwood Manor, one more time, but she couldn’t put it off any longer.
Her thoughts snagged. She’d rather sleep in the car, any day of the week….
She shook her head. “Out of the question,” she said, out loud. It would be cool when the sun finished going to bed in this sleepy, mountain town. She didn’t have the gas to waste to run the car.
Grabbing her camera, her one treasured possession, from the seat next to her, she forced herself to open the door. The hinges squeaked loudly in protest. That one sound made in the dusky yard, as though warning the house, itself, that she now headed its way. Well, she’d better get in there before she was forced to feel her way around in the dark.
That got her attention. Fear propelled her forward as she crossed through the great gate, near the much larger one, protecting the drive. She’d worry about opening the magnificent, wrought-iron gate to put her car in the drive later—perhaps tomorrow. Right now, she stumbled along the walk, toward the door, doing her best not to glance at the gargoyle statue, now that she’d made up her mind, lest the damn thing destroyed any will she had left….
Reaching the wide porch, she climbed the massive, ornate stairs. Her hands shook, trying to find the key, she’d put on the keyring, for the house. At the door, she rushed to open it, fumbling to fit the key into the lock. After several long breaths, she finally managed to get the door open.
She tried the lights, sagged with relief to see the electric company had at least done as she requested, and turned on her power—though the old busy-body, on the other end of the phone, tried to tell her she didn’t want to live in that old haunted house….
The old woman should have minded her own business, but she’d been right. Morgan glanced around. Why would she want to?
As her thoughts snagged on those old, attic windows—a shiver tingled her skin, skimming the base of her spine. “Don’t you dare think about that now,” she scolded out loud. She stepped further into the house, then immediately locked the door behind her. “Nothing like locking yourself in—when you should be locking yourself out,” she said through clenched teeth, swallowing past her dry throat.
She scanned the front room and chose a heavy candlestick, testing it. Feeling more courageous, now, with her weapon, she stepped further into the house.
Dust-covers lay over the furniture, and dust layered the shelves in cobwebs. Sketchy memories told her that the first floor held the kitchen, dining room, and several other types of rooms, but all the bedrooms sat on the second floor. She followed the echoes, rising from hidden memories of the past, of children’s laughter, from the wide, ornate stairway and the promise of protection, beyond. But Morgan had one goal in mind.
To lock herself in one of those rooms, till daylight.
She crept up the stairs—listening hard for all the creaks and groans. Stiff with fright, she made her way into the first bedroom, she came across, not letting her gaze linger, too long, on the door leading to that freaking attic, closing out the memories that fought to flood through her mind….
Memories of a huge, old ornate-looking book, that once sat on an equally old overly-large, round, claw-foot table…. She stopped just inside the doorway—frozen.
They shouldn’t be coming back here.
They’d been like a ball of energy—a ball of power. And that ball of power had scattered to the wind—when she disappeared….
Morgan strangled on her breath. Where had that come from? She fell through the bedroom door, in her rush to get inside. Scrambling to her feet, she flipped on the light, closing and locking the door behind her….
Dragging in huge gulps of air, she turned to face the room. For several long moments she stood that way, paralyzed with fear. Finally, she forced her terrified limbs to move. First, to make sure she was alone in this room. Second, to find something to wedge against the door.
She did the first in short order. Still not feeling safe, she did so more thoroughly, a second time—and a third. Then, she dragged a heavy, antique chair across the hardwood floor, wedging it against the door.
Satisfied no one else could get through the door, without breaking it down, she began to straighten up the room. Each room held a bathroom. Relieved to find they’d turned on the water for her, as well, she made quick use of some.
She’d had to get someone to turn it on, from outside. Somehow, she’d known they’d have shut it off, to keep the pipes from freezing with the upcoming fall and winter.
Lastly, she shook out the bedding, looking around at the grand, old room.
The manor held beautiful, antique highboys, and this dresser had an equally decorative, antique mirror. The bed boasted four large, carved posts. The bed, itself, massive. Though it smelled musty, the dust cover saved it from being beyond help—and the chest, at the end of the bed, still held bedding.
Exhausted, she tumbled onto the soft haven, it offered, falling asleep almost as quickly as her head hit the pillow, dreaming, once more, of the boy who’d climbed his way into her every waking thought—ever since she first opened that letter….
