I sat in silence, my head in my hands. The argument replayed over in my mind. Don't act like you care. Did she really think that? That I didn't care for her? A frustrated sigh left me and I stood, leaving the chaotic ballroom to be dealt with later.

She was right. I had leapt at the first chance I got to leave this town. To escape the memories, the darkness, the prestigious name. I wanted to be normal for once. To heal. In Maine, no one knew the Gates family or the tragedy that followed them. The shadow that followed me everywhere I went. Even at home. Grandma had done her best to raise us, but now I wonder if we had swept Emily under the rug.

The dark hall stretched on, leading to the family wing. My fingers traced along the swirling patterned wallpaper. The hardwood floor creaked under my weight. What mother did had left permanent scars, both physical and invisible. I thought leaving would help me. Help my family move forward. I hadn't realized my escape would hurt Emily. She seemed fine when I left. Was it an act or was I blind? Had I failed my sister?

The thought gnawed at me. I'd been so focused on my pain that I failed to see hers. She rightfully felt angry and abandoned. My departure must have seemed like a betrayal, a validation of her worst fears—that she wasn't worth the effort to stay.

I stopped in the hall. Five bedrooms lined up before me. A blue glow and the sounds of a hushed Tv emanated from one. Seemed Emily had taken up residence in our mother's room. I wanted to help her. To comfort her and bridge this gap between us. But right now, she needed space. Needed to clear her mind from the alcohol. The familiar hall sent a shiver down my spine. Surreal, standing in the family wing after so long.

I set my bags down in one of the guest bedrooms. Across the hall was my former room. The door mother previously shot through, replaced, like it had never happened. Curiosity got the better of me and my hand shook as I peeked inside. The room remained frozen in time. Still decorated with the imagination of an 11-year-old, complete with a dusty, purple canopy bed, enormous windows, butterfly decals, stuffed animals galore and a wall of books that arched over my bed. Like ghosts clinging to what used to be, white sheets draped over the furniture, similar to the rest of the house.

But gone was the crime scene that had occurred. A wooden floor replaced the bloodied carpet. The ropes, torn curtains and knife, all gone. Gone but not forgotten. A sharp phantom pain raced down my spine and I quickly shut the door, gasping. My body shook and my legs nearly gave in. The images that flashed across my mind pinned me in place. My mother's cold, vacant eyes. Her face, devoid of emotion. The burning sensation of rope around my wrist as they twist. No amount of screaming or wiggling had freed me. No! Deep breaths. I won't let this break me. I've moved on! My mind screamed.

I tried to focus on something, anything except my erratic heart and the bitter silence of the hall. I'm safe! She can't hurt me. No one can hurt me. The darkness encroached, and I could feel the walls closing in on me. I had to do something. With a deep breath, I pushed myself to step away from the door, only to trip and tumble, gripping my chest as it blazed. I took countless breaths, but they were never sufficient. Unconsciousness danced in the corner of my eyes.

"Amelia?" my sister's tired voice called from behind me, barely above a whisper. "You okay?"

I latched on to the sound. Her voice echoed in my mind. Grounding myself. Slowly, I pulled my mind from the black pit. My heart still raced, but the images and phantom pain faded away. After several gulps of air, I stood on shaky legs.

"Amelia?" Emily said. Her door creaked long and eerily as she left her room.

"I'm fine, Em. I'm okay." I stuttered. The words repeating in my mind in an attempt to persuade myself.

"Are you sure?" She stifled a yawn.

"Yes. Go back to bed." I offered her a small smile, though I wasn't sure she could see it in the dark. Her face illuminated by a soft blue light, she nodded and rubbed her eyes.

"Oh... Okay. Good night." There was a long pause, and then her door clicked shut.

"Good night Em," I rasped. Alone again. A shiver ran down my spine and I grabbed my bags, opting for a bedroom farther down the hall. Locking away the demons once again in my mind. I should sleep, I told myself. It had been a long, long day.

But as I turned, the intricate double doors at the end of the hall caught my eye. It had been so long since I stepped foot in the library. A place that held so many memories. My safe space. Beside the fireplace during frigid winter nights, cozied up with an engaging book. My father used to bring me hot cocoa and grandma's sugar cookies. The warm wood tones, soft lighting, wide windows, and the earthy smell of parchment made the place so wonderful. The memory alone was enough to wash away the residual panic. Was it still the same as I remembered or had time taken its toll?

My heart compelled me forward—the yearning for that safe place. When everything had been so carefree and filled with love. The touch of the silver door knob was cold, and the hinges groaned, welcoming me back after a long time. What greeted me though was a cold, dark room. Void of any life. Pale white sheets swayed like scattered ghosts. The books were all gone, likely boxed up and somewhere safe. All paintings were taken down and stacked against the bookshelves. Closed, heavy blue drapes hung over the floor to ceiling windows and dulled from the dust.

I stumbled forward, a knot forming in my stomach. Why did I assume the library would be unlike the rest of the house? It was my fault, after all. Since no one lived at the estate, the executor had dismissed everyone except for the groundskeeper, who took care of the yard and cemetery. Emily had only lived here for three months, only cleaning what she needed.

Flipping a switch, the lights flickered and only half the room lit up. To restore the functionality of this place would require a significant amount of effort. With just us two here, we wouldn't need much. I made a mental note to check in with the executor tomorrow. To determine the necessary actions. One thing was for sure, though. No matter the pain I felt, this was my home. It always would be, and I hated seeing it like this.

With my head held high, I marched forward. The drapes were heavy as I pulled them open, letting the moon light filter through the dusty air. A calm winter woodland greeted me on the other side. Cleaning was therapeutic, and the idea of doing the same to my entire home was comforting.

I pulled the ghosts off the furniture, folded them neatly and tucked them in a corner. The closet offered various cleaning chemicals, and at the bottom, well-preserved wood logs. A smile stretched across my face, and I grabbed an armful. Covered in dust and cobwebs, the stone fireplace remained resilient in the forefront of the room. Time ticked by as I cleaned, rearranged and straightened everything I could.

Father's treasure still filled the display cases along the wall. From knick knacks to authentic gold pieces, jewels and stones, old texts and clay pottery. Evidence of his journey across the world before he settled and married Mother. He gathered many stories, accomplishments and memories, though I remember him saying the night of my birth was the greatest thing he ever experienced. The memory of my five-year-old self curled up in his lap as he read his journal to me, brought a smile to my face. I wonder where that journal has gone. Did it disappear along with him? Wonderful as the memory was, I couldn't recall any of the stories he used to tell me.

After an hour, my limbs grew heavy and my head swayed like the fire in the hearth. I couldn't restore the room completely, but this was a start. Exhaustion crept at the edges of my mind, and as I retreated to a nearby armchair, I noticed an envelope near Father's empty desk. A plush armchair welcomed me as I settled in front of the crackling fire, the same one Father and I used to sit in. written on the envelope in neat cursive was my name, Amelia. My brows furrowed as I tried to open the letter. But I couldn't keep my eyes open to read the words. Surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the memories of my father, my vision blurred and my mind gave way to exhaustion.

© Copr. 2024. Jessica Powell. All Rights Reserved.