November First Chapter Writing Contest - Second Place
Ordinary Chapter 1
Evelyn Ashbrook was exactly one hour shy of seventeen, and she was waiting.
Underdressed in her yellow skirt and pink sandals, she couldn’t stand another minute of the solemnity that the occasion of her father’s death prescribed. It had been six months. She had grieved. She had cried. She had worn black at all the events her mother had held in his honor. She wouldn’t live that anguish any longer.
And yet here she was, again seated in the same rigid wing chair across from Lawrence Grey’s desk. The attorney’s office was modern and sleek. A mahogany desk gleamed from under several neatly stacked piles of documents and an array of Post-it notes. The room had the unmistakable feel of sophistication and class, and she found it surprisingly intimidating. The last time she was here she barely noticed the paint color, despite it being her favorite shade of green.
Mr. Grey had been the family’s attorney for as long as she could remember. She had always known him to be a decent man, so when he called her on her cell phone early yesterday morning, she had no reason to challenge his motivations.
But however strange it was that he had called her personally, even stranger was his request for a private audience. He had alluded to the fact that this was in reference to her father‘s wishes, but she didn’t like having to resort to subterfuge in order to come alone.
She rarely lied to her mother. She rarely lied to anyone for that matter. She figured all she had in this life was her name and her word. And if she was a liar, neither was worth anything.
But, of course, this was different. She sensed this meeting would transcend her philosophical principles of moral conduct. And besides, this wasn’t the first time she had been compelled to lie on her father’s bidding. His secrets were worth keeping. The ones she knew about, anyway.
But her mother hadn’t seemed to care that she was spending her Sunday with friends at the mall. As long as anyone in this backwater town didn’t recognize her used Jetta parked at the law office, she’d be fine. The only thing worse than lying, she imagined, was getting caught.
She shifted in the stiff chair and couldn’t decide where to place her hands. It was awkward to leave them folded so neatly on her lap — it felt too formal. She moved them to the arms of the chair, resting them lightly on the plush brown fabric. She quickly pulled them back again and snatched her purse from the floor. She cradled it in her lap, working the straps nervously with her fingers.
The door on her right came open abruptly and she jumped in her seat. Mr. Grey blew in gracefully, ever the quintessential lawyer, dressed in a power suit and black tie. He was carrying the classic combination-lock briefcase, leaving in his wake the scents of authority and aftershave, in that order.
He acknowledged Evelyn with an easy smile and ran a harried hand through his stylish salt and pepper hair. He reached his desk in three long strides and plopped the briefcase on top of the Post-it notes, sending a few gliding toward the floor. He didn’t bother to pick them up.
Seating himself gracefully into the chair behind the massive desk, he wheeled it close enough to extend both arms across the table and clasp his hands together. He smiled again, as if to reassure her, and the action highlighted the gentle creases at the corners of his deep brown eyes.
“Well, Evelyn, I should tell you that it is not my normal practice to meet with minors unaccompanied by a legal guardian, but in this case I felt obligated to make an exception. Your father adhered to interesting ideologies, I must say.” He templed his fingers and gazed pensively at his silver cufflinks.
A few seconds later he glanced up at her again, his face wearing an expression of concern. “So how’re you holding up, kiddo?”
Evelyn stared at her feet. How was she holding up? Lately it seemed like whenever she heard that question, or one like it, it was an inquiry of polite obligation — like some unwritten rule of etiquette deemed it necessary before a normal conversation could commence. She continually reminded herself that people were just trying to be nice, to show they cared. But the truth was, no one ever really expected an honest answer to that question. And no one really knew an appropriate response. How much more of it would she endure before it became appropriate to stop asking?
“Um, okay I guess. It’s been rough, but I’m getting through it.” She gave her stock answer as practiced as always, and timidly rubbed her arms as if warming herself from a chill. “Christopher’s been a big help, though. He always knows the right things to say. I really don’t know how I’d get along without him.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mr. Grey replied, smiling. “I haven’t seen you around the house lately, and I was beginning to worry that the two of you were fighting. I remember the last fight you both got into — what was that, the fifth grade?”
“Oh yeah.” She relaxed a little with the memory and grinned. “Christopher got mad at me because I lent Katie Snyder the colored pencils that he bought for me with his allowance.” She laughed then and added, “Guess I deserved it.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. My son can be a bit strong-willed at times.” He considered his words for a moment and recanted. “Maybe pig-headed would be a better term,” he said with a smirk.
“At times.” She laughed. “But I’m still grateful for his friendship. He’s like my other self.”
He contemplated that for a moment, and a vague expression passed quickly across face. Not quite worry, not quite regret. It was something in between. He sat back in his chair, interlacing his fingers on his lap.
“You know, Evelyn, despite our, uh…troubled relationship, I’ve always been very proud of my son. I wish he felt close enough to me to consider me a friend, but I know that the road behind us has made that difficult. I’m very grateful he has you to talk to, but I do hope you will not let our differences influence your trust in me.”
“Of course not, Mr. Grey. You were a dear friend to my father.” Well, that was true, anyway. And it was the only thing that reassured her at all about this meeting.
He looked at her appreciatively for a moment and then cleared his throat. “Okay, so, on to the business at hand.“ Opening his briefcase, he pulled out a small white envelope and placed it on the table in front of him. He clasped his briefcase closed again and set it on the floor next to his chair.
“Evelyn, when we met last, your mother and I discussed the appropriate execution of your father’s will and the sequence of actions to follow.” He picked up the envelope and tapped it absently on the desk. “But there was something that I was not at will to discuss at that time, and especially not with your mother present.”
She gave him a quizzical look. Her demeanor clearly expressed confusion, because Mr. Grey sat back in his chair and shrugged, holding his hands up in surrender.
“Your father’s orders.”
As if that explained anything.
“I don’t understand,” Evelyn began, perplexed. “Whatever else he had to say, why did it have to wait this long?”
“I’m not fully aware of the nature of the information, only that he had specific requests regarding its dissemination.” He held out the envelope to her encouragingly.
She reached across the desk and tentatively accepted it, noticing her father’s scrawled handwriting in black ink across the front.
Larry, please remit to my daughter exactly six months following my death.
~ John
She turned it over, examining the opposite side, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Curious, she began to open it. But she barely got a finger under the fold before Mr. Grey reached abruptly across the desk and grabbed her hand, nearly crushing the envelope within it.
She gasped, startled by his unexpected reaction. For a moment, she could do nothing else but stare at his large, white-knuckled fist gripping hers. She remained still, though her heart was thudding so loudly in her ears that she was amazed he didn’t seem to hear it.
He was instantly embarrassed and removed his hand from hers. He nervously smoothed his tie against his chest and seated himself once more in his chair.
“My apologies, Evelyn,” he began anxiously. “It’s just that your father — well, he was very clear that there were to be no witnesses to your examination of the letter.” He attempted to gather his composure, but traces of red still flushed his cheeks. “Including myself.”
“What? But that’s crazy.” She stared at him indignantly.
He knows something. Something big.
Suddenly, mere curiosity gave way to feelings she had been bottling up for months. Anger, because the last six months had made her an unwitting pawn in her father’s post-humus game of secrecy. Pain, because she felt that she must not have known him at all while he was living. And guilt, because this was the first time she had ever been truly angry at him.
“What on earth is going on here, Mr. Grey?” She stood up from her chair and tossed the envelope onto his desk. “If my father was involved in something so cloak-and-dagger that even you are afraid of its consequences, then what makes you think I want anything to do with it?” She spun around and walked toward the door, her eyes brimming with tears.
“No. Wait.” Mr. Grey had the envelope in his hands once more and followed her out the door. He glanced uneasily around him as he slipped it into her purse. “Read it. Please. He said it will explain everything.“ He paused again, lowering his voice. “Come see me when you understand. Good day, Evelyn.”
With that, he retreated to the security of his plush office and shut the door behind him.
Uncertain what she should do, she stood staring at the black vinyl lettering that spelled out his name on the frosted glass window.
***
Evelyn parked her car in the garage, grateful that her mother was still at her pottery class in town. She walked to the kitchen and scribbled out a note that she was going to take a walk. Margaret wouldn’t have to guess where. It was the same place she always went – the patch of woods that her father had cleared for her when she was a child. It was her private sanctuary.
Lying flat on her back against the mossy earth, she stared pensively up through the twisted branches of the hemlocks and maples. Her wavy brown hair had become tangled with weeds and fallen leaves, but she didn’t care. This was where she had come after the accident. And where she had come every day since then. It kept her centered.
There had once been a tree fort here that they built together, but she made her dad take it down when she was nine because she had become convinced that there were “tree people” living in it. He had laughed at her and she refused to talk to him for a day and a half after that. But looking back, it did seem like a childish daydream.
She examined once again the seemingly sacrosanct, yet completely nondescript envelope Mr. Grey had given her. She analyzed the handwriting. It was clearly her father’s. His left-handedness gave it a unique slant, with smudges of ink here and there where his hand pushed across the words he had just written.
She closed her eyes and tried to recall a memory. As time went by, it became more and more difficult to produce his image at will.
This time he was in the attic, seated at the nineteenth century roll-top desk that used to be his grandmother’s. He sat hunched over, as usual, despite her mother’s constant admonitions about poor posture. His black brows were furrowed in concentration, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. Why he always chose to write in their humid, non-air-conditioned attic was beyond her.
His glasses were halfway down his nose, but that made no matter to him. When he wrote, it was a feverish scratching at the paper, a flurry of cursive and shorthand that rarely got transcribed into more legible forms. Most often, the lined yellow paper would go into a file labeled “Theories/New Research.” The file would then get locked away into in his oak cabinet, in a drawer marked with masking tape and red ink: Private.
She squeezed her eyes tighter. No. Then she opened them quickly. No more tears.
She held the envelope out as far as her arms would reach. The last of the day’s sunlight illuminated its corners, revealing the folded pages within, and the shadow of handwritten words upon them.
She stared at it for a long moment. Once this letter was opened, there would be no turning back. Whatever was inside would change everything — she judged that from Mr. Grey’s reaction. All the secrets, all the forbidden things her father had kept so well hidden — would they be revealed? Did she really want to know?
She dropped her arms to her belly and inhaled deeply, her lungs turning crisp with the chill. Autumn had fallen quietly over the New England landscape, trading the aromas of wild onions and blackberry for those of pine and harvest. It was the time of year when the days were still warm, but the evening air quickly turned cold and damp with the receding sun. She loved everything about October in Connecticut. She especially loved this forest when the soil became lush and wet, and its darkness held such a contrast to the colorful foliage of the woodlands.
The forest’s edge lined the perimeter of her family’s five-acre home, and it was relatively easy to disappear from society whenever she chose. Waldgrave was a small town, too small if anyone asked her. Granted, she knew nothing different — she had been born and raised here — but the collective mindset of the town’s 4,900 residents was just so…provincial.
Her father had called it “neighborly.” She called it nosy and narrow-minded.
He was good at that, though — shielding her with euphemisms, buffering her against the intolerable daily gossip. Given that her mother enjoyed her fair share of the rumor mill, conversations at the dinner table had become nearly painful. She missed her father’s carefully interjected comments about her mother’s latest book club title, or some other subject-changing topic. Often he would talk about his newest investigative report for the Waldgrave Courier-Post, which she was always grateful for, as it limited the opportunity for idle chitchat. He would throw her an inconspicuous grin and wink while asking her to pass the rolls.
If nothing else, he protected her too much. Until now.
She sighed and made a conscious effort to gather her courage. Well, Evie, she told herself, using the nickname that her father had given her, it’s vain for the coward to flee.
She carefully slipped a finger under the fold and began to tear at the edge. She made a small opening in the corner and brought it to her eye like a telescope, as if cheating would somehow absolve her from any real involvement.
Oh, this is ridiculous. Just open the stupid thing.
She sat up and leaned against the massive oak at her back. She took a breath and held it as she ripped off the end of the envelope in one swift, reckless motion. Holding the torn piece in her right hand, she paused and looked around expectantly. What, no terrifying beasts? No atomic bomb?
She sniffed. Of course not. Mr. Grey had some serious issues.
She reached inside and slid her fingers along the ridges of the folded paper. It didn’t have the same feel as the legal paper her father always used. This was coarser, like parchment. She began to pull it out when a rustling of leaves to her left caused her to stiffen. She turned her head in the direction of the noise, scanning the trees and brush around her.
Nothing.
Probably a deer. She put her attention back on the strange paper inside the envelope and tugged at it, easing it out carefully.
Another rustling, closer than before, got her attention once more. She froze and listened again.
A few leaves blew over each other in the distance, then fell silent. She looked ahead. A few more leaves, less distant, lifted and swirled and scattered along the ground. Soon, the swirling motion took on a linear direction – like a path being made by an invisible force. As if something were moving in her direction, kicking up leaves in its wake. But…there wasn’t anything there.
This wasn’t a natural event — it wasn’t an erratic shift in the wind, or the scurrying of a small animal. Something in the air changed, and the hairs prickled on the back of her neck. She often got this same feeling just before a thunderstorm. There was a charge around her, and it was growing stronger with each passing second.
Someone — something — was coming.
The leaves began swirling more quickly, moving closer. She scrambled backward in surprise, the papers in her fist getting soiled as she dug her wrists into the ground for leverage. The invisible presence moved toward her with undeniable purpose, the whirling motion of leaves and dirt coming at her like a storm — and then stopping abruptly at her feet. A small gust of wind blew her hair over her shoulders and sprayed dust in her eyes. She blinked, instinctively covering her eyes with the backs of her hands.
A new scent lingered in the air — it was so familiar. She knew that smell, but from where? It was sweet, yet woodsy, like honeysuckle and wet pine needles. The aroma of it made her nostalgic for something that was just out of her memory‘s reach.
She remained frozen where she sat, not necessarily by fear, but more by some strange, uncharacteristic defiance that began to pulse through her. What on earth did she have to fear now? The worst had already happened. Why should she live so tormented by the past? By the unknown?
No. She was through with that.
She dropped her hands from her face and squinted out at the nothingness in front of her. Standing up with a new determination, she faced the unseen presence. It was there, directly across her, emitting an electricity that was impossible not to feel. She gingerly stretched a hand out in front of her, struck with a desire to touch the air around it, to see if she would strike something solid.
As she did, there was a sudden jolt of movement and the stirring of leaves underfoot. She brought her hand back quickly in astonishment.
And then she grinned. Was it possible? Had she surprised it?
Oh, yes, she was done with fear.
* * *
Kearne Blackstone stood staring at Evelyn in disbelief. She must have been about seven years old the last time he had seen her. And a good thing, too, because right now he wanted to wring her pretty little neck. She had been a thorn in his side back then, and it seemed the tradition would continue.
Really? Was she grinning at him? How smug. He had half a mind to try out his newly acquired magic on her right now. She just might enjoy spending a few hours liberated from the burden of free will. He raised a hand toward her, palm up and fingers outstretched. What did the pitiable old faerie say just after he had rendered him powerless? Oh yes – be careful on whom you choose to use compulsion. Some were immune, and the whole thing could backfire.
Well, he’d take his chances.
It was so familiar, the surge of energy that rushed from his chest to his limbs to his head. Every spell pulsed like an electrical storm under his skin. His extended arm began to tremble with the current, an evanescent haze of cold blue creeping in an aura down his body. He could contain it for a while, but there came a point when it would no longer be his power to bear. The forces would culminate in an existence of their own, then strike out against the objective with a strength unequal to anything a common fey might conjure. He was gifted, and it came with a price.
Suddenly he thought of John Ashbrook. A terrible price to be gifted, indeed. Indecision flickered across his face, his cheeks burning with the heat of his blood. He struggled against the power, putting forth more effort than seemed necessary to recall a spell of his own creation. The haze around him began to fade and recoil as he slowly lowered his arm to his side. The blood drained from his face, and he blew out a sigh.
Using compulsion on her might provide some comic relief to this insufferable servitude, but it certainly wouldn‘t help matters. He was here and he was a man of his word, if nothing else.
And there was no use getting himself in trouble again.
Stupid bloody girl. She had no idea what he was capable of. No idea what she had just gotten herself into.
But she carried the Summons. There was nothing he could do about that. He was bound by faerie law to protect her. And if it was necessary for him to make an appearance, who knew what was about to be unleashed.
Hell, what had hegotten himself into?
Stumble it!