Sylvie Read online

  Copyright 2014 by Stacy Galloway

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editor/Webmaster: Roy Galloway

  Editor: Kristine Klauer

  Editor: Jessica VanEarwage

  Editor: Lisa Westbrooks

  Cover Design: Lindsey Harrison

  Technical Production: Luke Harrison

  Expert Reader: Megan Galloway

  Entertainment: Makayla Galloway

  This is for everyone

  who’s ever wandered around with me.

  I’ll always remember:

  great conversations and laughter,

  venturing down forgotten roads,

  exploring abandoned buildings,

  investigating unmarked trails,

  hiking to ghost towns,

  meandering through cemeteries,

  strolling past the roped-off areas,

  climbing over rickety fences,

  And ‘not seeing’

  the no trespassing signs.

  This is especially for my loving, patient husband

  who’s always ready to post bail.

  A special thank you to you,

  my dear reader.

  Thank you for wandering

  into this story

  and thank you for joining me on this new adventure.

  Table of Contents

  June 19th 2012

  It Had Already Begun

  Earlier That Day

  June 19th 1912

  She Found the Red Book

  And the Red Apple

  And Tried to Not Get Committed to an Insane Asylum

  June 20th 1912

  But She Couldn’t Find Herself in the Mirror

  And it Became Clear

  It All Looked So Familiar

  Then it Changed

  To a Tea Party

  And the Hand of Glory

  Wandered in the Night

  Looking for a Key

  It Gets Worse

  When Locum Tenens Begins

  Dreams Become Nightmares

  June 21st 1912

  And Locum Tenens Never Ends

  But a Small Hope

  Glimmers in the Darkness

  And Becomes the Light

  June 22nd 1912

  With Angels

  June 19th 2012

  No One Knew

  The Magic Words

  Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

  It Was Hidden in the Darkness

  June 20th 2012

  A Bleak Morning

  And the Horror Came Home

  Sylvie

  June 19 th 2012

  It Had Already Begun

  Tom’s good mood dissolved. The angel, nearly hidden under the apple tree, didn’t look like a harmless garden statue. Mossy and crooked, it resembled a tombstone.

  Slowly, he walked closer to the marble statue. The overcast sky brightened, and instead of providing comfort, it deepened the shadows, and gave him the feeling of walking through a dreary, abandoned graveyard.

  Not that he spent his time in abandoned graveyards. Aside from scary movies, he never gave them a second thought. In real life they weren’t in his ‘top ten places to visit’ nor were they in his top 100 for that matter. The lone exception was a few months ago when an overly-optimistic cemetery rehab group had contracted for security. The rehab group had visions of restoring a bleak graveyard to its former grandeur, but before they could do that they wanted to get rid of the teenagers that were ‘necking and wrecking the place’.

  Tom’s company had put him on the job. For three months he’d guarded the desolate site. He found no teenagers necking or wrecking- and that didn’t really surprise him. What did surprise him was how spooked he got. On moonlit nights, the shadows played tricks on his eyes and dark figures crept through the sunken graves. Figures that evaporated under the glare of his trusty Maglite.

  One night, he heard whispering. He followed the sound around the rusty iron fence until he found himself back at his truck. For a split second he considered calling it in. But he could already hear the guys laughing and giving him crap about chasing ghosts. They were already having a heyday about the place being haunted by the legendary Rumilures- black-eyed people that supposedly haunt caves and mines. A year ago, Old Pete claimed he came face-to-face with a Rumilure while guarding the mine out on Kratzkill Road. He’d called it in as a Code Red Emergency. When help arrived, Pete was shaking and rambling about how a man with pitch black eyes had tried to pull him into the mine, but had laughed and disappeared when the first squad car pulled up. The guys teased Pete mercilessly. With a shaky voice and forced smile, Pete himself had even joined in poking fun at himself. Two weeks later, he’d retired, claiming he’d devote his time to woodworking and daylight activities.

  Tom walked over and peered closely at the angel. Up close she didn’t look menacing. Above him, lightning flashed and ruined the last hope of a bright sunny day. Tom looked back at the house and hoped he’d see Bridgette- her migraine magically dissolved. But his wife was nowhere in sight and the dark windows stared back at him coldly. A chill ran through him and he shook it off.

  “I gotta get more sleep,” he thought to himself.

  He picked up the shovel, poised it near the angel and at that instant thunder cracked overhead.

  Earlier That Day

  Bridgette’s day started like any other Tuesday. Tom had rambled on about yard work and blah, blah, blah. His security guard hours meant he worked more nights and weekends than not. His enthusiasm about spending the morning doing yard work was not catching. Bridgette herself had been secretly planning a getaway to the mall. She’d found the cutest manicurist and wanted to try the latest Hollywood polish. She sat in front of the laptop gazing at the dazzling array of choices and decided on one called ‘Galleria Rose’.

  “So, we’ll dig it up, move it and see if it’s worth anything,” Tom said excitedly.

  “Huh?” Asked Bridgette, bored already.

  “The angel! That’s solid marble and we already know it’s old. Earl says it’s been here as long as the house, and you know Earl’s lived here forever.”

  Earl- as in Ellen and Earl- were their nearest neighbors. Nice enough folks. But they were old and almost as boring as living on this little ten acre farm out in the middle of nowhere.

  Tom had inherited the land through a long lost uncle. Well, not really long lost, but a family black sheep. Tom’s parents were dead, Tom’s brother, Joe, lived an exciting bachelor’s life in Chicago. At first, Bridgette thought they would sell the land, divide the profits with Joe and maybe buy a new house. A house like the ones she saw in all the magazines; soaring cathedral ceilings, white trim, and French doors that led to a cute flower garden. She’d hire a gardener. Worms and slugs grossed her out and there was no way she was sticking her hands in that muck. But flowers would be so pretty right outside some nice, white French doors.

  By the time Bridgette realized that Tom planned on actually living on the farm, it was too late. They’d given notice to their landlord, loaded up a moving truck and driven 300 miles into the boondocks of Southern IL.

  “Might as well be in Kentucky,” thought Bridgette as she moped and watched the scenery go by. />
  She had to admit, that once they pulled into the driveway, the house was better than she thought it would be. No soaring ceilings or French doors, but there were trees and a pretty flower meadow that separated them from the Hartman’s. As in Ellen and Earl. The peace and quiet appealed to her for a few weeks. Then she got bored and restless. Tom implored her to try her hand at raising vegetables and selling them at the Farmer’s markets. There was a handsome profit margin, he’d explained. She promised she would, but knew she wouldn’t. Instead she found cute little shops. Tom gave up and they’d spent the next five years squeaking by on his paycheck.

  “Bridgey, I’m going to need your help.”

  Bridgette rolled her eyes. Did he really think she was going to dig around in the yard today? Her make-up was perfect and she’d gotten her hair to lay just right.

  “You don’t have to touch anything, just hold the angel up while I dig her up.”

  Tom looked at her with his big, brown teddy bear eyes. His long dark lashes were thick and perfect. She would have killed to have those eyelashes.

  “Fine.” She said, “But that’s it. I’ve got plans that don’t involve dirt and lugging things around the yard.”

  Tom broke into a smile that warmed her up and down. She loved the big goofball, even if he had moved her out into the middle of nowhere.

  Minutes later, Tom had gotten every garden tool they owned and laid them out in the yard. Bridgette had just changed into comfy jeans and a t-shirt when a knife felt like it stabbed her temple.

  She held her hands up to her eyes and whispered, “No, no, no, please no! Not another one!”

  The pain ignored her pleadings and dug in further.

  She shaded her eyes and glanced out the window. The day was beautiful and bright. There was no sign of clouds or impending doom.

  She kept her hands over her eyes and shuffled towards the kitchen.

  A gentle arm stopped her. Tom hugged her and said, “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  “It’s a migraine,” whispered Bridgette, each sound throbbing and stabbing through her head.

  Tom kissed the top of her forehead and said, “Go. Take your medicine. Lay down. Maybe we can stop it before it takes hold.”

  Bridgette cautiously looked up at Tom. The pain tore through her forehead and roiled her stomach. She swallowed and hoped she wouldn’t throw up. Tom’s concerned face peered at her gently through angry black blotches of migraine.

  “But you needed my help….” Said Bridgette

  “Yes, but I got this. You need to take your medicine and sleep it off. I’ll take care of the angel, and if it’s too heavy I can get Earl to help. Go. Lay down and get better.” Tom kissed the top of her forehead again.

  Bridgette turned and shuffled back into the bedroom.

  “Love you Bridgey,” called Tom from the kitchen.

  “Love you too,” whispered Bridgette knowing he wouldn’t hear her.

  She closed the shades and took her medicine. She grimaced thinking about how it would knock her out for a while, but Tom was right; maybe she could sleep it off.

  And that was the beginning of Bridgette’s typical Tuesday. It was typical for Tom to be enthusiastic about some house project. It was typical for Bridgette to want to go shopping. It was less typical for Bridgette to get a migraine. But it wasn’t typical at all for Bridgette to lay down in her bedroom- on her bed- and wake up in a rocking chair. In a strange room. Facing a fireplace and staring at a half-eaten apple on the floor. No, that wasn’t typical at all.

  Bridgette’s typical Tuesday was going horribly, horribly wrong. And things were getting worse.

  June 19 th, 1912

  She Found the Red Book

  It was a red book wedged between smoldering logs in a stone fireplace. As Bridgette tried to put the strange sight into a familiar context, another glimpse of red drew her attention to a half-eaten apple laying on the floor.

  Illogically, she reached for the book and froze when a bony dirt-grimed hand lifted itself towards the fireplace. Bridgette drew her hand away and nearly screamed when the bony hand dropped itself into her lap. She grabbed at the white apron- that she was apparently wearing- and gasped when the horrific hand grabbed the material. The bony hand kneaded at the stiff, coarse fabric until her numb mind ordered it to stop.

  Cautiously she lifted both hands and watched in horrified fascination as two bony, white, dirt-grimed hands held themselves in front of her face. She wiggled her fingers and they fluttered like a macabre sign language. She stared at the jagged, dirt encrusted fingernails and weakly wondered what happened to her clean, poppy pink manicure.

  An insistent knocking jolted her and she bolted into fight or flight. Flight won, but she barely took a step before a deep cough rumbled from the very bottom of her lungs. It exploded and doubled her over with its power. Black spots danced past her eyes. She took a deep breath and another spasm wracked itself out of her lungs.

  “Hellooo, are you all right in there? Sylvie, I’m here with that chicken stew I promised! Hellooo!” Called a woman’s gentle sing-songy voice.

  The insistent knocking became more urgent.

  “Sylvie? I know you want to be alone, but you need to eat, dear. Hello? Sylvie?” The gentle voice was raised in concern.

  Doubled over, Bridgette took a staggered step away from the voice. She gasped for breath through the wracking coughs.

  “Forgive me, dear, but I’m coming in,” said the worried voice. The screen door creaked as it opened. A slam as the spring pulled it closed. Footsteps. Something clattered and then clunked. More footsteps getting closer.

  “Sylvie, I…” A plump older lady rounded the corner and stopped. Her cheerful face drained and her eyes widened.

  “Oh, my dear, Sylvie are you ill? I mean more ill than before? Honey, you look as white as a sheet! Here sit down and let me bundle you up. There now.”

  The pleasant woman gently sat Bridgette down and produced a quilt from somewhere. Bridgette gasped for breath. Gentle rocking told her she was in a rocking chair. Cautiously, she looked up at the woman peering gently down at her.

  A black lump of hair fell down Bridgette’s face. She jumped and tried to gasp but it was choked off by another coughing spasm. Her head bent towards the creepy, foreign hands. Repulsed, she jerked away and watched in horrified fascination as another clump of black hair uncoiled down her shoulder.

  The lady bent down and gently pushed both locks of hair away from Bridgette’s face. She felt Bridgette’s forehead, looked relieved and said, “At least the fever hasn’t come back.”

  She stood up and peered over her glasses. “Sylvie, we got worried. I’m over there tending the chickens and Floyd is out back hammering around and we hear this big whoosh, like a cold wind tearing around in the dead of winter. Well, then we hear a loud crack and I look over here and your screen door is wide open!”

  She paused and mulled something over. “I know you want to be alone and I says Floyd we have to go check. Sylvie would not bang her door open and leave it hanging like that and Floyd says ‘Nettie go on and check or you’ll worry yourself to death’- and I would. Besides, that the chicken stew is done and I know you are still adjusting.”

  Rubbing her hands on her apron, Nettie started to say something and then stopped.

  Bridgette watched her carefully and dully wondered who Sylvie was.

  Nettie tilted her head as she made a decision. “I don’t want to anger you… But Floyd is bringing Ole Duke up right now. Now I know, I know you say you feel safe and you have your Richard’s rifle, but Ole Duke will be here just in case. He’s the best hound we have. He’ll bay till the cows come home if he sees anyone on your property. Now, don’t tell me ‘no’ because it’s already been decided. I can’t help but worry. Floyd says that bad man is long gone. In fact, he’s probably all the way to California after what he did here.”

  Looking mortified, Nettie’s eyes filled with tears and she said, “Oh, I don’t mean to bring that up.
”

  Somebody knocked.

  “Nettie you in there? Hello?” A man’s voice called out.

  “Yes, Floyd, come on in. But make it quick! Sylvie’s not feeling well today.” Nettie called back.

  Creak. Slam. Footsteps. A large man in overalls stepped into view. “I brought Ole Duke around. He’s set up in the back. I told him to stay and he knows what to do.” Floyd pulled his handkerchief out and mopped his face.

  “I told Sylvie that Ole Duke’ll keep an eye on things for her. She can work on feeling better and he can keep the place safe,” said Nettie.

  “Sherriff says they got leads. They’re roundin’ em up left and right. Folks are all up in arms. Got the law worried about a lynching.” Floyd announced while he stuffed the handkerchief in his back pocket.

  “Floyd!” said Nettie, “Stop that talk! Sylvie’s ill and doesn’t need to get all stirred up again!”

  Floyd shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable. “Sorry, I got ahead of myself.” He looked towards the window. “Looks like the boys are back. We’re gonna till up the south field after lunch.”

  He turned to go and then looked at Bridgette, “Hollar if you see anything and we’ll come running.”

  He walked away. The door creaked. Pause. Floyd called out, “And don’t forget about Ole Duke! He’ll bay till kingdom come if he sniffs danger!” Slam.

  “I’m sorry, dear, I hope we haven’t upset you. We can’t help but worry about you after what happened to your Richard and…” Nettie sniffled, “sweet Molly.”

  She dabbed at her eyes with her apron and glanced towards the window. “Goodness me, its past lunchtime. I’ve got another kettle of chicken stew to dish out. You rest, dear, that will get you better faster than anything else. I’ll be back after supper to check on you, now no arguments, once things are put up I can set Beth to the sewing and come visit with you. I can’t rest knowing you’re over here all by yourself. And I want to make sure you’re feeling better. Rest now, dear.”