Wilhelmina A Novella (20 page)

But Fremont had practically become a ghost town. I hadn’t expected this, not at all.

I walked through the once lively town, once occupied by farming families and plenty of land-rich, bankrupt aristocracy, who reveled in the misfortunes of others to make themselves feel validated. It was strange to see dusted business windows and abandoned buildings.

I had forgotten that everyone had abandoned Fremont at the news that the Union army was pushing south into Louisiana. Somehow, in my head, things hadn't changed here. Now all that remained here were dead memories.

It was eerie, how fresh everything looked after four years of loneliness. Because it had only been such a short period of time, everything was still in top shape, nothing was rundown or decrepit.

And there it was, Old Lou Girthwright’s cottage on the western edge of town, very nearly floating above the swamp itself. I was a bit wary about approaching his home. What if he didn’t live there anymore? What if he’d run away like everyone else?

There were no lights on in the windows, and the porch was dark. Everything was just as still as the rest of Fremont. That was until I heard a faint heartbeat inside. As I drew closer I heard labored wheezing.

The door was unlocked.

I was deadly silent as I stepped inside the pitch black home. I followed the strong, tangy odor of the old man; it practically burned the hairs right out of my nose. I held my breath and instead chose to follow the sound of his heart. Standing in the doorway to the small room in the cottage, I could see an old woman lying in her bed.

I stared, wondering where her husband may be. She stirred in her sleep and jolted upright. She looked around the dark room in a panic.

‘Who’s there?’ she asked. Her voice was worn and hoarse. ‘I know you’re there.’

I caught sight of her eyes in the darkness. Overrun by cataracts; she was completely blind.

‘I’m looking for Lou Girthwright,’ I said, calmly. Her heart jumped at the sound of my voice. ‘Do you know where I can find him?’

‘He’s up on Rue Hill,’ she said. I remembered Rue Hill, it was where the Fremont Cemetery was. He was dead. ‘Who’s asking?’

‘I’m Wilhelmina Shepherd, I used to live here.’

‘I know you,’ the old woman said. ‘I know who you are. You were that witch’s daughter.’

‘Step-daughter,’ I said moodily.

‘No, child, I mean your mother. There’s something… off about you. I can sense a lot of things; you’re a strange one,’ she said.

If she only knew.

‘I bet I know why you’re here. You’re looking for the nigger woman, aren’t you? The one that kept writing, asking about you.’

‘She… she wrote about me?’ I asked. If I had a heart it would have jumped right into my throat. ‘What did she say?’

‘Lou always said that she was asking if you’d finally run away from somewhere. But when news reached her that her niece died of a horse-riding accident she stopped writing.’

‘Horse-riding accident?’ I asked furiously.

Thea’s death was passed off as an accident, and no one cared enough to question it. Elizabeth Bathory could’ve said that Thea was carried away by a hundred hummingbirds and dropped into a watermelon river and they wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

‘Well I ain’t got nothing to tell you. My husband died when the Confederate army found out he was helping niggers get up north, and nobody cares to write here anymore. All them letters he got from the coloreds was buried with him,’ she said.

She laid her weary bones back down, mumbling to herself, and I left her to her sleep.

I walked through the empty streets, wishing I could have seen it when Fremont was still alive. I never really got to leave my father's house under my step-mother's rule. Irony hovered heavily over me as I, a dead soul in a dead body, was the only thing alive here.

I stopped when I saw my father’s house on the east end of town. A rush of visions hit my eyes as I saw the large willow in the front yard with the rope tied to one of the high branches. I remembered swinging on that rope while I played in the yard with Abby. I remembered reading by my small window to the summer sunlight. I remembered waiting there, seeing Charles as he strode across the lawn and through the front door. Watching him take off his coat and smiling up at me. His beautifully curved and coy smirk was the best part of Tuesday nights.

Then I noticed something. At first I thought it was just another vibrant memory come to life, but once the nostalgia began to wear off I realized that what I was seeing was reality.

My window was lit brightly in the night like a star above the town. Candlelight flickered behind the curtains. I couldn’t believe it, someone was actually here. Someone had to have stayed behind, but who could it be?

I rushed across the lawn in a blur, and quietly crept through the door.

The once glamorous sight of the entrance lit by the grand chandelier was gone. Darkness and dust had settled into its place. I blew up the stairs like a breeze and caught a scent that smelled deceivingly sweet and floral; it reminded me of Gregor and the Governess. Behind that saccharine scent was the unmistakable stench of death. Whoever was in my room was not among the living, they were the damned, undying, like me.

My room was empty. Where someone once stood, there was only loneliness. They must have left recently. The room was bare, the walls were stained, and the floor was dusty. Nothing from my childhood memories had survived. All that was left was a single, burning candle in the middle of the floor, and a small white envelope.

I immediately noticed the name on the envelope and could hardly contain myself.

From the desk of Mr. Charles E. Abberdean.

I wasted no time in ripping the envelope apart to get to the note inside.

To my dearest Wilhelmina,

I am so terribly sorry that I could not save you from a fate that I wish I hadn't accepted myself. I fought to spare you the damnation, this affliction, and instead he put you in an early grave. I know that you will never read this because you are dead.

Papa always told us that candles are guiding lights for the dead, and writing a letter by candlelight seemed the most appropriate way to tell you how much I love you. I pray to God in heaven that you can find your way home, and that you get a chance to read this.

I promise that I will find Charles and hand out justice for what he's done to us. I will not rest until both you and mother are avenged.

Freedom is something that you’ve never known. You’re free now, Wilhelmina.

Forever,

Mary E. Shepherd.

I dropped the letter onto the floor and stared into the candle.

Had Charles known our mother?

I held my red ribbon in my hands and thought only of the exchange between Charles and myself. The smile in my memory made the pit in my chest ache.

What did he have to do with our mother's death? What did Mary know that I didn't?

Dawn was quickly approaching. There was no address on the envelope, and therefore no way of knowing just where this 'Desk of Charles Abberdean' was.

I realized that I would probably never see a familiar face again. My step-mother and Dinah could have been anywhere in Texas. I had absolutely no idea what Mary had been up to since last we'd met, and she could have been anywhere in the country by now. Her scent still lingered here for me to catch, but the wind outside would have blown any trail of her away. And the last but not least, Mary now believed me to be dead, and therefore she would never return here, never search for me.

I was forgotten, alone and loveless. And it seemed only right that things should end this way. After all, I'd traded Charles for revenge.

The sun began to rise over Fremont, shining through weeping willows and dancing off of the swamp water. Light dazzled across the walls of my old, small bedroom as fire writhed beneath my skin.

The firelight inside of my flesh made me think back on the carnage of my wicked vengeance and how merciless I’d been. I would never be able to absolve myself of those sins, of this I was certain. And if there was a heaven, my mother and father were surely disgusted with my very existence now.

It was a hard reminder that my life, from the moment that my father died, held no meaning for me. What friends I had were gone. What love I held dear to my heart was tainted.

I was free, finally free, and I could only taste the dull, rusty flavor of my own misdeeds. I was hereby shackled to my own miserable, lonely existence.

As the sun began to set, the flare of the flames beneath my skin faded into a softer peach glow. I walked west of Fremont in the night. No rush, and no hurry, I simply walked. Since becoming a vile succubus I'd felt invincible, infallible, and unstoppable. But walking made me feel somewhat human. My heart was still just as weak and vulnerable as it was when I was human, so it wasn't a very far step from being the girl I used to be. But my grace had long since fallen, and I was on a journey straight into the fires of perdition.

The sun rose over the horizon again. I simply continued to walk through the trees. Sorrow and heartache consumed me, and that's exactly how I preferred it to be. I didn't want to feel cheerful, or hopeful. If I did, then little Abby's memory was just another memory. She deserved better than that, since I'd denied her the right to live.

I walked until the sun set, and rose, and set again.

I came to the sea and I stood atop high cliffs, overlooking the ocean tides. The jagged rocks below roared back as violent waves crashed against them in anger. The gulls in the sky hovered, and the sun watched my every breath as it raced across the sky.

I held my ribbon in my fist and cried out the name of an angel that no Christian could claim to have known as I had. I let my body fall forward and soar through the rush of wind that swept past me until finally plummeting into the cold, dark sea like a stone.

I sank, quickly, yet for all the water that rushed through my hair and smothered my bones, it took a long time before I hit the sandy depths. I sank so deep, in fact, that the sun vanished from the water's surface and all I could see was darkness.

Charles told me that I was immortal, undying like him. But he'd been murdered. So it must have been possible for me to die as well. Maybe I would drown. I prayed that death came soon as I thought of Charles and waited for Charon's icy grip to pull me from the ocean and into his river.

In this watery womb, my aqueous tomb, I could dream of Charles until death came to collect me. It was as close to Heaven as I would ever come.

In dreams, I slept, waiting. But death never came. I despaired, stuck in this eternal quagmire.

That is until one day I felt two warm, solid arms pulling me out of my murky grave. I wasn't entirely certain just how long I had been there, but it had been long enough for me to forget just how to move my limbs. But they soon recovered, and when I opened my eyes I looked into the eyes of my rescuer.

It was the first time I'd seen him since the garden in the governess' estate. It would be the first time he put his arms around me and carried me to safety, but not the last. For in this man, who had been sent to find and kill me, I instead found a guardian.

His name was Charles Whyte, and we were about to change the future of the entire world, both human and demon alike.

We, the dreams. We, the immortal. We, the undying.

To be continued...

'Ms. Shepherd, the Nightmares have returned.'

I looked up from the book I'd been skimming through as my loyal servant, Mr. Gryce, stepped into my study. I rose, adjusting my gown. Mr. Gryce stepped aside, and two of my trusted guards escorted a very irate looking individual into the room.

'Presenting Mr. Charles Whyte,' said Gryce.

This Charles wasn't nearly as intimidating as his reputation made him out to be. He was much shorter than I'd expected, mere inches taller than I was. I could smell the liquor on his breath, a strong bourbon mingled with traces of oak and sweet aromas. He looked at the two black-clad, rifle-toting guards, my Nightmares, at his side and then his eyes focused on me.

'Please, leave us,' I said. I nodded to the Nightmares and to Gryce. The Nightmares shrugged and strutted out without a care. Gryce, however, seemed a bit more reluctant to leave me alone with this vagabond that I'd worked so exhaustively to find.

'It's all right, Mr. Gryce, he won't hurt me,' I assured him.

'I'll be right outside if you need me, Ms. Shepherd.'

Mr. Gryce closed the doors behind him. Whyte smirked and raised an incredulous brow.

'You're pretty confident that I won't hurt you, miss,' he said. He waltzed up to my desk as I walked around to meet him. 'I assume this kidnapping business is your doing.'

'Yes, I had my soldiers follow you, study your habits,' I said.

'And after all of this, you're still confident that I won't harm you?' He laughed.

'Yes, I am. You're predictable, and I minimize risk wherever I can.' I poured him a glass of whiskey and handed it to him as a peace offering. 'If I wasn't confident that you wouldn't harm me, we wouldn't be having this conversation.'