Darkening Around Me

Nothing.

Only the stirring wilderness of leaves all around and the occasional gasping sigh of a wilted petal as it fell.

My eyes, though, had adjusted to the artificial night created by the overgrown and neglected garden. Now I saw them. Face after face after face slowly revealing themselves to my wide peering eyes.

There were dozens of statues. All of women. All with horrible expressions—pain, fear, shock, grief—forever frozen and on display. The garden seemed to hold a perpetual funeral in its leafy embrace.

I closed my eyes and swallowed against the too-rapid breaths that threatened hyperventilation.

Only statues.

And in the garden of a sculptor, for heaven’s sake.

No reason for panic.

No reason for the fight-or-flight instinct that had my fists clenched and my legs poised for takeoff.

Sweet, rose-scented air caressed my face and the rustling of leaves teased my ears. But it wasn’t soothing no matter how I tried to make it for long seconds with my eyes closed and my nerve failing. Finally, my eyes popped open and there they were. All still exactly as before, silently harmless, while the sheen of sweat down my back said otherwise.

I went back to my car to retrieve my bag from the passenger seat with slow, purposeful strides, refusing to hurry and definitely refusing to run. Not because it was silly—though, of course, it was. Absolutely ridiculous.

Carefully, I leaned over and picked up my satchel. It was packed with a week’s worth of belongings. No more. No less. A week at Thornleigh was all I’d been allowed by the reclusive artist who was to capture my likeness in clay.

I’d seen his work in my aunt’s gallery back east. Beautiful, luminous pieces full of strength and spirit. Nothing at all like the poor souls behind me. Were they his work, too? And, if so, did I trust him enough for what lay ahead?

* * *

The rose jungle ended abruptly in a gravel-strewn patio beneath the looming great house known as Thornleigh. Finally, with a deep breath, I could taste the sea once more and fill my lungs with its salty freshness. Built in the early 1960s by an eccentric millionaire, the stone-walled house would have looked more keep than castle if it hadn’t been for its copper-topped turrets that pierced the cloudy sky above it. I’d passed through many quaint Victorian-era neighborhoods in my life and they’d always seemed vaguely haunted, obvious remnants of days gone by. Thornleigh mimicked that on a grand scale, an insistent, persistent whisper of “nevermore.”

Washington was already exotic to a lifelong Virginian. I thought I’d known “green.” In the long drive from Port Angeles, I’d experienced more hues and shades than the tame forests and manicured lawns back home had ever displayed. Redwoods larger than I had imagined and the wild rocky coastline. So violent and changing compared to the tame beaches of Norfolk’s coast. I’d traveled extensively over the past two years, testing and proving myself, again and again. But Thornleigh and its jagged cliff pedestal seemed to challenge me.

Up the sides of the house, vines twisted and curled and climbed as if they sought to escape as I had from the statues in the garden or maybe pull the house down to a stony ruin at the statues’ feet.

“You made it.” A deep voice interrupted my morbid fascination with Thornleigh. I quickly shifted my gaze, only to meet the darkest eyes I’d ever seen. I’m five feet five inches tall. Thornleigh was four stories high and built—I had read—on top of a first-class rock wine cellar. The man who stood between us wasn’t even slightly dwarfed by the house at his back. And I? I felt tiny confronted with them both.

Miles O’Keefe. Tall, dark and handsome, but more than those things. He topped me by almost a foot, but his broad shoulders curved in on him when he pushed his hands in his pockets. His eyes were so brown they were almost black and his hair fell in Byronesque waves more mahogany than chestnut, but his skin was pale, as if he spent little time in the sun. His face was perfectly formed and balanced with a lean, cut jaw and firm, well-shaped lips. But the brows on his pale face were furrowed above his watchful eyes. I was suddenly certain he’d seen me hurry from the garden, chased by an overactive imagination that had been fed by dark experiences I’d like to forget.

“Why, yes, of course…certainly no trouble finding it….” I laughed, feeling even more foolish over the fear I’d felt in the garden. I knew real fear. That hadn’t been it. But, rather, it had been fed by the real terror that still lurked, pulsing along with the blood in my veins.

He looked over my shoulder, squinting enigmatically into the shadows behind me. Then, he dropped his searching gaze again to my upturned face.

But not before I glanced back. Just once. To be sure no one…and nothing…was behind me. Foolish or not, the feeling of being watched wouldn’t leave me.

Jet lag, surely. No more. No less.

“One week,” he reiterated. He made no further commentary on my travels or small talk about the weather even though dark clouds swirled above us and several fat droplets of rain hit his shoulders to run down across the broad expanse of his chest at his collar.

I wanted to tell him again that I didn’t believe in curses or legends or rumors of macabre hauntings, but something in the closed quality of his face stopped me. I’ve never been a chatterbox or a social butterfly; even less so following that horrible day years ago…. I didn’t press for conversation.

I nodded, willing to humor him after my long drive and frightening walk with the statues. His statues, I reminded myself.

He reached toward me and his sudden movement caused me to startle. I jumped and squared my shoulders. One foot slid back to brace and balance slightly behind the other. He paused, one dark brow crooked and his eyes more penetrating than before.

My bag. He wants to help with my bag.

Polite gesture meet defensive overreaction. Ugh.

I didn’t regret the martial arts lessons. Not for a minute. No one who had been through what I’d been through should regret learning to defend herself. However, I did regret pulling out my practiced moves when they were obviously unnecessary.

“I’ve got this,” I said and I meant it. I could handle my own bag and whatever else came my way.

Bravado sometimes works best when your nerves are shot.

More rain began to fall and he turned to lead me inside. Even with a sudden downfall roaring around me, I shivered as I stepped over the threshold of Thornleigh.

* * *

Dear Mr. O’Keefe:

In January of last year, I survived multiple stab wounds following an armed robbery at my aunt’s art gallery, La Roux. I’m a silversmith. I stopped in for only a moment to deliver a custom crafted pendant. I was left for dead, but I didn’t die. Others did. A month ago, I saw one of your sculptures at the gallery. I have since learned that you are renowned for capturing the female form and conveying its strength and beauty. I have undertaken many long months of physical therapy and strength training to reclaim my health and my life. Being sculpted by you would be an affirmation for me. I hope you will consider my request.

Sincerely,

Samantha Knox

* * *

Later—a year later—an exquisite envelope had arrived in my dusty mailbox. Who corresponded on actual paper—luxuriously thick and clothlike paper—these days? The envelope was creamy vellum and I handled it with care because I’d never crafted the kind of ornate sterling silver letter opener it deserved. Trembling fingers had to suffice. I had seen the return address handwritten in a firm but artful script. What I found when I opened the envelope surprised me. There was a simple note responding to my emailed request, but with it a folded charcoal drawing of the statue I had so admired at La Roux. The drawing distracted me from the note for long moments. I was hypnotized by his bold and obviously hurried rendering. The charcoal pencil had been pressed into the paper so hard that it left indentions, which would have torn through cheaper paper. But the image he’d created wasn’t crude, no matter how simple. She was as compelling in charcoal as she was in clay. She leaned into an invisible breeze that swept her gown against her body. Her face was indistinct as if seen from a great distance.

Finally, I’d pulled my attention from the drawing to read the letter.

* * *

Dear Ms. Knox:

Yes. I will see you. I invite you to Thornleigh this summer. For one week. Only.

O’Keefe

* * *

I had looked Thornleigh up on Google. Of course I had. I did nothing these days without research and preparation and triple-checking of all my facts. Not because I was suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome—although my therapist might disagree.

There had been tons of information on the house and the way the surrounding community felt about it and its previous owner. Dominick O’Keefe had been seen as a reclusive madman. His wife, Maria, had thrown herself from the cliffs in 1965, not long after their wedding. Her ghost still haunted the area according to legend. There were entire books and television specials devoted to the Thornleigh Bride.

I’d purchased expensive stationary to reply to him in kind. My cursive—beyond what I used for my signature—was rusty, but my letter to him was crafted in neat, orderly rows of the script I had remembered from elementary school.

* * *