Read Within the Shadows Online
Authors: Brandon Massey
Within the Shadows (39 page)
“So then let’s say these Creek Indians, who would’ve been in sync with the energy of a natural place, selected the area of Mourning Hill for their sacred ceremonies because it resonated with earth power.
What if the green light Dad sees in his dreams actually represents a power reservoir of some kind, that exists right there on the property, maybe in the house? And—what if Mika’s father was
tapping into it,
somehow, consciously or unconsciously, when he was running his medical practice? It could’ve enabled him to work his miraculous healings.”
tapping into it,
somehow, consciously or unconsciously, when he was running his medical practice? It could’ve enabled him to work his miraculous healings.”
“And what if Mika uses that same energy?” Carmen said. Excitement sparkled in her eyes. “She channels the power, uses it how she wants.”
“Then feeds it or something by taking other people’s energy,” Dad said. “Like Sammy told you guys.”
“Exactly,” Andrew said. “She’s probably used this energy to keep herself youthful. And to do all the other amazing things that she does.”
“But how does she harness this power?” Carmen said. “It’s not like you can buy a Psychic Power Channeling Kit from Wal-Mart, guys.”
Andrew tapped his lip. “I think she has some genuine psychic talents of her own. It gives her the ability to draw from this other energy source. Which then turbo-charges her, so to speak.”
“Now the big question is,” Carmen asked, “how can we use this against her?”
All of them fell silent. Rain beat a steady tattoo on the roof.
Andrew was convinced that their theories were correct. They had made a lot of progress toward filling in the gaps in their knowledge. But Carmen’s question exposed the major issue that gnawed at all of them. How could they use what they had learned to put an end to Mika’s relentless stalking campaign for good?
The quiet stretched on.
“You know what I’m thinking, kids?” Dad said at last. “To get all our answers, I think we’ll have to pay a visit to the source. Mourning Hill.”
Chapter 48
L
ike a stealth submarine cruising turbulent ocean currents, the Rolls Royce Silver Shadow cut through waves of rain and gusting wind.
ike a stealth submarine cruising turbulent ocean currents, the Rolls Royce Silver Shadow cut through waves of rain and gusting wind.
Her obedient cats gathered around her, Mika sat on the plush leather seats in the rear of the sedan, gazing out the side window.
Although her eyes took in the rain-blurred countryside, she was looking inward; viewing other times, places, and people with her mind’s vivid eye.
She reflected on chapters of her life; different times, divided like scenes in a novel.
She thought about the beginning . . .
She was her mother’s first and only child. She was born with a veil, as was her grandmother, and many ancestors before her. It was proof that she had inherited the gift that had run through her mother’s bloodline for generations. Second sight. The sixth sense. Extraordinary talents. She was special.
Her mother named her Celestina, after her grandmother, a free mulatto woman from Louisiana who used her talents to become a revered root worker.
Her father, a solemn man, had wished for a son, to carry on the Mourning family name. But he quickly warmed to her, adored her. Called her his princess. And used his considerable resources to indulge her every whim.
Nothing in the world is too good for Daddy’s princess. The world is yours, darling. Whatever you desire is yours.
He bought her expensive little girl dresses custom-tailored in London. Gave her a horse from a renowned breeder, when she was barely old enough to sit in the saddle. Had an ornate, elaborate dollhouse constructed for her that was large enough for a full-size adult to comfortably inhabit. Built a boxwood garden for her, containing life-size, stone statues of her favorite Greek goddesses: Aphrodite, Athena, Artemis, Hera. Hired private instructors to teach her piano, dance, painting, French, and Latin.
She always got what she wanted, and always would. Because Daddy taught her that that was her right as a princess. She deserved only the best.
Her mother, predictably, resented the attention her father showered upon her, declared that she was spoiled and would grow up to be unbearably selfish. Her father ignored her protests; he was so taken with his daughter that he’d apparently forgotten that he had a wife.
Mama knew all about the teachings that a special child such as she needed to acquire, in order to properly handle the gifts with which she’d been born. But embittered, Mama taught her nothing about her talents.
Therefore, Celestina learned all by herself.
She was four years old when she saw her first ghost. When she was out in the yard playing, a short man in overalls, with graying hair and a wrinkled, tanned face, leaned against a Georgia pine, scratching his protruding belly and staring at her. His image wavered like a reflection on a pond.
She wasn’t afraid. She was fascinated. When she mentioned the apparition to Mama, her mother, who knew better, told her to stop imagining things. Daddy didn’t believe her, either.
But she instinctively knew nothing was wrong with her; she was seeing real people who weren’t in the same place as her anymore. As she grew older, seeing ghosts became as frequent and ordinary as watching butterflies flitting around the flower garden.
She quickly graduated to more interesting activities.
Her cats, Circe, Iris, and Eos, pedigreed Russian Blues from the same litter, always had been excellent companions. One day, when she was six, she discovered that she could bond with her cats in a manner that went far beyond playing simple games with balls of thread. She learned that she could summon the cats—without speaking a word or making a gesture, even if they were in a different section of the mansion. They came running to her, unfailingly loyal, willing to please. Soon, she taught them to do anything that she desired, solely by her issuing telepathic commands.
Once she mastered the cats, her skills developed at a rapid pace. Making silverware rise in the air and turn end over end. Causing her mother’s dresses to dance around the room, like ladies at a debutante affair. Starting fires, merely by focusing on a small pile of twigs and visualizing a cone of flame . . .
She’d learned to hide her burgeoning abilities from her mother. Her mother would try to convince her that she was just an ordinary little girl and needed to stop playing foolish fantasy games. But she was far from being a common girl. She was a princess, like her daddy said. A particularly special princess.
When she was ten, she ventured into the upper room of the mansion for the first time.
She’d long believed that there was something unusual about the attic. On numerous occasions, she’d watched as, late as night, her father stumbled out of the doorway that led to the attic, his hair frizzy and eyes bulging, as if he’d been given a jolt of electricity. He would always secure the door with a heavy padlock. He was hiding something important inside.
One night, concealed around the corner, she saw her father stagger out of the attic and latch the door, and then amble off to bed. She went to the door and concentrated on the lock for several seconds . . . and it popped open and clattered to her feet.
Locks could no longer keep her away from what she wanted. But it had taken her years to screw up the courage to enter the attic.
Her palms tingling, she climbed the steps and emerged in the chamber.
A big, greenish orb revolved in front of her, sparks crackling across the translucent surface.
She moved forward, into it.
It was like walking into the sun.
Afterward, her life was never the same.
Pure, soul-searing psychic energy resided in the upper room. It had no consciousness, no malicious or positive intent. It was the equivalent of a fire that would never die; an ancient, limitless power source that had broken through a wall that separated the physical plane of existence from the world of the unseen. Indeed, the power was so transforming, so awe-inspiring, that one likely could have employed it to resurrect the dead.
And it was hers, to use as she desired. She was, after all, a princess. She could have anything in the world, do anything she wanted.
Her daddy already had been using the power, for his medicine work. He didn’t possess her gifts. But the energy aided him, all the same.
Working in tandem with her innate abilities, the power boosted her to a superhuman level, made her almost like the Greek goddesses she loved to read about. She expanded the uses of her talents far beyond anything she’d done before.
Invoking storms was an especially pleasing activity. A hail of stones. Nineteen inches of snowfall in southeast Georgia. Flash floods.
She did other stuff, too. Varied acts. Whatever caught her fancy.
She never exercised her powers to hurt anyone—though sometimes, people got hurt or died. For her, it was all about fun and discovery. As a princess, she had the right to have her way with the world, which she’d begun to consider as her own, gigantic dollhouse.
Then, when she was eighteen, she fell in love.
He was a tall, well-muscled young man with smooth cocoa skin, a new member of the crew that landscaped the grounds of their estate. Watching him work bare-chested in the summer sun, seeing his sweat-slicked muscles flexing, gave Celestina a warm, tingly sensation all over.
She decided that she would have him, at least to fulfill her sexual needs. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d taken one of the laborers for her own uses. She’d lost her virginity at fifteen; her body, deliciously ripe at that age, had enticed one of the virile, young gardeners to knock off work and spend the afternoon with her in the woods on a remote region of the estate. She quickly learned that sex was a powerful means to get a man to comply with her wishes. No man had ever been able to resist her. She often liked to use her beauty and charms to get attention, to drive a man to do anything to win her favor.
But her new prospect was different. He had a sharp mind, something she rarely encountered in the men who worked at the house. He possessed the imagination of an artist, such as a painter or writer. He was more like one of the high society men that she’d met at formal functions—but those stuffy men feared her, and spread nasty rumors behind her back. This man, however, this handsome manual laborer, displayed no fear of her.
He understood her. Knew she was special. And like her daddy, he called her his princess.
She fell in love fast and hard. So did he. He was her soul mate. She’d seen it in his eyes, when they first kissed in a meadow on a sweet August day.
But they kept their romance secret. Her father regarded black men as inferiors, and would likely disapprove. Nevertheless, after three dizzying months of exchanging secret love letters and sharing clandestine dates, her lover could hide his ambitions no longer. He wanted to ask her father for her hand in marriage. She tried to talk him out of it, said that she would agree to marry him and didn’t need her father’s approval and they could elope, that she would renounce her inheritance to be with him. But he was a proud man and refused to keep his love for her in the shadows.
He met with her father. And was driven out of the house, her father chasing him with angry fists and a stream of threats.
She talked to her father, too. She confessed her love for this man and begged for his blessing. Her father had never denied her anything. How could he deny her this, the greatest gift she’d ever received?
But he vehemently opposed her wishes. Eyes swollen in their sockets, he shouted that he would never allow a Negro man to marry his precious daughter—and inherit his estate.
Her mother, smiling smugly, pleased to see her daughter’s hopes crushed, sided with her father, too.
She hatched a plan to elope with her lover. But only two days later, while lounging on the lake, fishing, a rifle shot to the back of the head dropped her lover to the sandy banks. The authorities ruled his death a hunting accident.
She knew better. Her father had hired someone to kill him.
His murder plunged her into the most profound grief she’d ever known. She dressed in black and tore plugs out of her hair.
She would kill herself. Death was preferable to living another day without her love.
She climbed into a half-filled bathtub. With a razor, she slit both of her wrists. Blood flowed from the gashes . . . but within seconds, the wounds healed. Screaming, she slashed herself again, with the same result. And again . . .
But after years of drawing upon the power in the upper room, her body had developed powerful defenses against injury. Her suicide attempt was futile.
Soon, her grief gave way to rage.
Damn
anyone
for denying her what she wanted.
anyone
for denying her what she wanted.
She vowed to give her father the same punishment he’d administered to her soul mate.
All her life, she respected the mental space of people around her. But she blew like a psychic tsunami into her father’s thoughts, and pushed him to madness.
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