Fiction: “This Sinister Inheritance: Chapter 3”

The townsfolk all knew about the secrets of the house that Lord Ashter once owned. Well, he has always owned it. Sometimes, I see visions of the little boys playing in the yard with their old toys, building blocks, and strategy games like marbles and jacks. I know they’re not real - surely, they can’t be? Once, I could hear the cheers when the littlest boy, Clarence, won his first game of marbles against his big brother, Robert. Ever since that first game, Clarence has always beaten him. I feel as if I am the only one who sees these kinds of things around here, maybe because nobody else bothers to speak of the strange paranormal nonsense. Every time I go into my yard with my kids, I see them, lingering and wanting to join in these modern games. Sometimes, I hear them chanting repeatedly. It gets overwhelming, so we go back inside quickly. My kids can't hear it, but I can. I can hear them, calling me, seducing me into their house of horrors.

I sincerely think that the house is rubbing off on me. There was the night I found the marble on our front porch. It wasn’t one of ours—too old-fashioned, too worn down, its surface etched with tiny scratches like claw marks. It was as though it stopped in its tracks, after Clarence rolled it to me himself Ever since then, I’ve been keeping a journal, even if it makes me feel like a lunatic. I jot down every whisper, every flicker of movement at the corner of my eye, every time I hear Robert calling out for a rematch or Clarence laughing that eerie little laugh. The boys are getting bolder. They used to stay near the house. Now, I see them on my porch. They linger all the time, never allowing me any peace of mind.

Sometimes the signs will be even more obvious. When I drive my kids to soccer, I pass that house and feel the eeriness seeping through the vents, into the car, and it lingers. Eating the orange slices on the sidelines, I can feel it caressing my skin, whispering in my ear and massaging me with its poisonous intentions. My kids notice a difference in me, but they don’t know why. To be honest, neither do I. It’s just some stupid story. Maybe I need to go back to my doctor. My husband has been on my back since I had my last child to renew my medications, but I am fine. I mean, I hear and see things others don’t, but it's just my mind playing tricks.

 I am completely fine.

Taking out all of those library books on local history hasn't helped his concerns. Imagine what he’d be like if he found out I got some files from the police on the scenes they found at the house in the eighteen hundreds. The murders; the only body discovered was a woman who was torn from the waist down, a botched abortion, they said, but that is preposterous since she was cut to kill. I see her roaming around at night, clinging to a lamp post, bleeding, and gushing a crimson current that flows effortlessly from her torso. She vanishes once she turns and stares at me, clutching her torso in her hands, which is now detached from the rest of her body. Sometimes I look for her, I’ll go out at night because I can hear her calling my name repeatedly. My husband will bring me back inside and tell me not to go out again, but I always do. 

I want justice for that woman. I’ve read the case files repeatedly, hoping to discover something, yet they are all identical. The woman was pregnant at the time of her death, yes, but was reported as being happy. The father was either powerful or dangerous, and the pregnancy threatened his future. Her ghost is bound by sorrow over her unborn child. She appears to me in protective, maternal ways, covered with a white shawl. I try to communicate with her, then she just vanishes, and I’m left with a hole inside. It plagues me at night. I wonder how she ended up in Lord Ashter’s haunted house of horrors. Sometimes I think she is reaching out to me because nobody saved her.

When I had my third child, I felt her presence in the delivery room, angry that I could be the mother she never got to be. When I finished pushing and my child slid out, I could see her, lingering with open arms; wanting to cradle the child she never got to hold. Jealous of the new life that I brought into this cruel world. When I had recovered from each birth, I saw her more. Lingering around and watching my every move.

“You're just going crazy, baby.”
My husband says. He just doesn't understand it.
“I swear she was there! She was right there!”
I point at the window desperately. The window is now empty.
“Maybe you need to go back on your meds.”
“I am fine! Those meds are the problem!”
“Your womb is rotten! Two daughters in a row, everyone knows that you are the reason for your own misery!”
He slaps me hard, then he walks away, leaving me holding my newborn baby girl. My husband is a violent man, to put it lightly. Maybe he is a reincarnation of Lord Ashter himself.

She immediately shows up again.
“You… you know!”
She lingers in the doorway.

Imagine a pristine white dress, once a symbol of purity and innocence, now a gruesome canvas of violence and tragedy. The dress is stained with blood, the life force of a woman brutally taken. The blood seeps into the fabric, creating a macabre contrast against the once-virgin white. The stains are not mere splatters but deep, dark pools; evidence of the gruelling struggle for life that ended in death. In her lifeless arms, she clutches a tiny, still form—a baby, its tiny body limp and cold. The baby's skin is pale, almost translucent, and its eyes are closed, never to open again. The mother's arms are wrapped protectively around the child, even in death, a final act of love and desperation.

The dress, once a garment of joy and celebration, is now a chilling testament to a life cut short and a future stolen. The blood and the baby form a haunting display, a silent scream of injustice and loss. The white dress, tainted with blood and cradling a lifeless child, is a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the brutality of death. The deaths of the innocent.

“You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know!”

She continues. Her thoughts are as scattered as confetti in a windstorm.

“You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know! You… you know!”

I ignore her, flicking through the case file.