Weathering Old Souls E-Book

James J. Cudney

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Abigail has always struggled with the voices. From the relentless tyranny a woman faces on an antebellum plantation to the unknown prison camps in America during World War II, our heroine discovers the past in a way that changes her future.

Moments from the past serve as guiding posts for the country’s growth, and also mark the transitions for Abigail’s own personal history. Her best friend, Margaret, partners with Abigail to discover the identity of the mysterious voices, while focusing on her passion and quest to become a United States senator.

Through it all, a serial killer torments the country, romance blossoms between people they meet during the journey, and long-buried secrets come to light in devastating ways. As elements twist, numbers align and spiritual powers connect, no one will be the same again.

Leseprobe

WEATHERING OLD SOULS

JAMES J. CUDNEY

DIDI OVIATT

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

A Message from the Authors

Introduction

Prologue

1. Origins; The Past

2. Inexperience in the Early Years

3. When School Isn’t Always the Place to Learn for a Six-Year-Old

4. An Eight-Year-Old’s Wish for a Necklace to Bind Them

5. Childhood Traumas; Spirits Grow Intense as a Teenager

6. Drowning in the Truth of One’s Past

7. Adulting is Never Easy

8. Things Hidden Always Return to the Light

9. The Accident; An Unstoppable Trajectory Collides

10. The Coma

11. Beginnings of a Quest and the Treasures You Find

12. When Dreams Tell All

13. Memories That Arrive Too Quickly

14. The Crashing of Coincidence

15. Solitude in the Finality of Death

16. The Blue Door; A Cover-Up Unearthed

17. Blood is Thicker Than Water, Except When It’s Your Own

18. Peaceful Reflections

Epilogue

About the Authors

Copyright (C) 2021 James J. Cudney & Didi Oviatt

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A special thank you to all of the bloggers and BETA readers who helped us to shape Abigail’s story. This book has been quite the journey for us, and we couldn’t have asked for any better support and input from the writing community! Much gratitude to Shalini, Misty, Candace, Lisa, and Anne for all their input, recommendations, guidance, and suggestions to improve the novel.

A MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHORS

When we first explored the possibility of co-writing a full length novel, we never could have imagined just how much we’d end up accomplishing together. The process has taken us on an outstanding journey of friendship and overall growth. Together, we’ve learned how to lean on one another for creative support, patience, and a phenomenal sense of open communication. A mutual respect has formed, and the both of us couldn’t be any more thrilled to release such an emotionally impacting story with our readers. Thank you to everyone who has picked up a copy of this book! We appreciate every single reader and look forward to your feedback.

—Didi & Jay

INTRODUCTION

Many cultures believe one’s spirit has an enriched and accessible history where the current inhabitant lived in several time periods before emerging in their latest physical form. Each new and distinct life, mere links in a single threaded chain of interrelated reincarnations, seeks to place a familiar stamp of maturity and knowledge on the new essence, hence the popular terminology old soul and new soul.

In the peculiar case of a woman from Concepción, South Carolina, during an intense life-changing experience in her thirty-third year, a profound and seemingly unbreakable elemental loop of souls was discovered. It’s important to acknowledge that there is more to this case study than simply understanding a multitude of aforementioned incarnations separate and distinct from her contemporary being.

During that near-death moment, alarming visions of her past lives flooded into her present life, saturating the basin of a powerful memory pool. When turbulent flashes of unfamiliar truths and incomparable confusion descended upon the woman, the aberrant vibrations plaguing every fiber of her physical and ethereal presence finally made sense.

At first, the permanently life-altering experience felt random and inconspicuous. It eventually evolved into such an extraordinary discovery that no one believed her when she swore an invisible hand had shoved her directly into the light, leaving behind a trail of devastation and enigmatic trauma. Something had reached inside the woman with an invisible key, unlocking the distinct lives and personalities of each iteration preceding her. Suddenly, their faces became shockingly familiar, their voices sounded crystal clear, and their auras painfully separated from hers, launching a journey that would be in every way bigger than her own. A place of much needed resolve. The only question remaining was whether the vicious cycle would continue or crash into a fiery, permanent conclusion of the centuries-long chain.

PROLOGUE

It’s odd the way blood will splash upward once it’s pulled violently out of the flesh. Over and over, each time a knife is expertly plunged in and out, spraying and sticking to every surface it touches. It reminds him of rain. The thick, slightly painful kind of rain that stings your skin when it pours from the sky and slabbers in puddles, like a dance of jumping beans. The biggest difference, he’s decided, is that fresh splattering blood is hot as opposed to rain, when even on scorching days it still holds a bit of a chill. Blood is different, especially when it squirts onto the more sensitive parts of his face, like his lips and eyelids.

The victim no longer wiggles in his restraints or cries and tries to scream for help through the muffled coverings on his mouth. All that’s left is the mushy, cut-up torso that looks remarkably like ground beef, along with the twitching of nerves that causes his feet and arms to occasionally jolt. The killer smiles through his blood-soused, terracotta face and stares at his handiwork, enveloping the satisfaction he’s gained from all his previous victims.

“For you,” he sighs, taps his chest, and stares high above. “I got another one for you.”

The oddly contented man stands and wipes his glove-covered hands down the front of his makeshift surgical coat, not exactly clearing them from the crimson liquid completely, but he rubs them just enough to prevent any dripping. His victim’s little girl sleeps soundly in her room, courtesy of the melatonin he’d slipped into her juice cup an hour ago. Sneaking into the kitchen while she played outside in the yard with her babysitter was a risky move, one that he had no choice but to make.

He prefers to kill when his victims are home alone. The only trouble with this particular fool was that he rarely idled in such a position. He was the extra-controlling sort, hardly letting his wife out of sight. On the rare occasions that he permitted the woman time to herself, she was sure to receive a beating afterward, just in case she misbehaved in one way or another while they were apart. Their kid was always either at school or at the house. They didn't stash her with friends or family—ever. The couple worked together, and on this night, they had separate meetings; hers predicted to last longer than his. It was an opportunity the killer couldn’t miss.

While scrutinizing the dirtied remains of his now mutilated victim, he recalls their conversation, one he’d listened to outside their bedroom window a few days ago.

“You could leave early. People do get sick, right? They’ll understand,” the man cajoled his wife.

“I can’t; you know that. I’m in charge of the proposal.” The woman slipped into a skimpy, silky nightgown and stared at her feet, standing before her husband to let him inspect the goods. A gross routine of belittlement where he told her that she’s fat, disgusting, and unfit before he slapped her around and took her from behind like a dog. She continued to plead while he looked her over. “If I don’t stay and mingle afterward, the likelihood of being granted the incentive I’m trying for is slim.”

“Shut up, slut,” he demanded, walking around her in circles and forcing himself inside of her violently. Once he’d finished reaching his climax, he yanked his clothing back on and grunted at her. “I know exactly why you want to stay late.” He circled again, stopped behind her and roughly pulled her head backward by the hair. “And I know exactly who you want to stay late with.”

“No,” she whispered in a trembling voice. “I swear. It’s my job. There’s no other reason.”

The killer had been watching them for months, and nearly every night it’s the same routine; the man controlled his wife and daughter through fear and violence. The killer had hand-plucked this bastard after a military commemoration dinner. He’d sat outside, across the street in his car, watching closely as dozens of couples and decorated men poured out of a grand hall after their feast. Most of the people were happy and proud, talking to each other with smiles and respect. Those were the kind of people that the killer avoided. He knew from direct experience their courtesy and personal integrity; even granted them the respect they’d earned and very much deserved. But every coin had two sides, and in every full jar one tarnished penny insisted on being isolated from the others. In this case, the bad penny’s name was Edward Smythe.

The killer could tell straight away; he knew the sort too well. Hell, his own father donned the hat of a violent, sociopathic narcissist. Too bad he wasn't the only one in the killer’s life who possessed such qualities, not even close. The Smythe couple's mannerisms rang familiar the very second they exited that building, and the killer spotted it with the precision of an adeptly skilled predator who’d spent years tracking and stalking his prey.

Edward Smythe had held a hunger in his eyes and a fierce grip on the woman at his side. Tight enough that the skin of his wife’s arm had begun to purple under his knuckles, yet he went unnoticed in a crowd. Raquel wore thick makeup to hide her bruises and a downward-cast gaze, clearly avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone. The killer inspected more closely, homing in on the clunky jewelry covering her wrists and ankles completely. He squinted, straining his eyes to observe her more clearly. Sure enough, her ankles were reddened and bruised, likely the result of being bound.

The killer started his car and followed the couple as they drove home for her punishment of enjoying the compliments and attention of her dress, one that Smythe himself had picked out and insisted she wear. His instincts were on point. He parked down the road and flipped off his lights as the Smythes pulled into their driveway in a clean-cut, picture-perfect suburb. They hadn’t even made it completely up the walkway before the man grabbed his wife by the nape of her neck and shoved her forward, nearly knocking her off her feet.

At that moment, the killer knew without a doubt that he’d picked the right man. Stalking someone who’s always in crowded places was easy, but men like Smythe weren’t such a simple task. Luckily for the killer, this suburb had lots of in-and-out traffic; parking was tight and inconsistent. There was an apartment building at the entrance of Smythe's street, and most days he could park on the far east side, granting him a covert place to wait as the couple went to and from work. It had also given him an easy opportunity to window peek nightly with a safe escape for retreat.

Now, after the deed is done, the killer steps over his victim’s body, careful not to dip his feet into the pooling blood. No shoe prints, he reminds himself. The only thing that’s allowed to be left behind, ever, is a small piece of fabric. A smooth, square sample of teal challis, a favorite blend of materials and colors someone close to him adored as much as fresh air. Only the best creations are made of this intricate fabric, and now it’s used as a gross sign of revenge and fury. A hell thrust on only the worst men. The nastiest in this vengeful killer’s eyes—men who deserve their merciless fate. If only the babysitter hadn’t looked outside at the very moment he crossed the patio adjoining the kitchen sliders. The thought of tying up such a loose end nauseates him.

“It’s necessary,” he whisper-grunts while nosing around the room, staring into the faces of Smythe family photos littering the living room walls in symmetrical design. The vague emptiness in their eyes is a sick opposition to their full, fake smiles. “The girl will never stay quiet. I must alter my pattern. There is no choice but to kill her too.”

1

ORIGINS; THE PAST

Two noteworthy events occurred in the state of South Carolina in the dreary winter of 1987. The first, a powerful and extraordinary child was born inside the walls of an ill-prepared hospital during the height of an electrical storm so majestic and detrimental, it marked the history books for a small, rural town tucked into the outer folds of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The second, a loving family moved into their new abode, the eastern half of a run-down twin home on Street 211, a cul-de-sac with a stunning view that overlooked Concepción’s water source, Lake Remembrance.

Spanish explorers who’d migrated west from the Atlantic Ocean had founded Concepción in the early seventeen-hundreds. Eventually they’d lost the land to the British, before America formed its own country. A hidden gem, it remained virtually preserved and untouched until the Civil War, when slaves sought protection in many of the mountain’s hidden ridges and cliffs. Over time, more people settled in the area, and it blossomed into a thriving community where inhabitants proudly stood together to support one another and cultivate a promising future. During the Industrial Revolution, the town prospered from the iron ore and gold found beneath the rocky soil and mountains, but they suffered enormously from disease and poor fortune during the Great Depression. Lake Remembrance had always been the area’s place of comfort, a retreat where locals gathered to fondly recall when times were better.

The original Perry family, comprising a father, mother, and three sons, had immigrated to the United States at the end of World War II on a whim. The father, a London manufacturer who’d been visiting the English countryside where his ancestors once lived, announced one brutally scorching summer day, “We need to find a quieter place. Somewhere we can advance our lives. An opportunity to keep our families grounded and focused.”

The Perry family’s friends all nodded and muttered their agreements, yet they feared taking any true initiative or making the first move. It was the patriarch’s wife who volunteered the unexpected support, insisting, “Just do it already. You know that I’m behind you, and our boys deserve the best. Stop whining like a spoiled child, my unconfident visionary. Let's get ourselves to the very place you’re dreaming of. Quit dawdling and lead this family.”

The hesitant man and his friends deliberated on the once great and mighty rural American South, and since the Perrys were keen to find a new home, a transatlantic emigration seemed most ideal. They relocated to the small town of Concepción, South Carolina, where life improved immensely until global war broke out again. When the U.S. dispatched soldiers to East Asia for combat in the 1950s, all three sons were in their twenties. The military deemed their eldest, married with two sons of his own, too ill to participate. Unfortunately, his two younger brothers, both eligible for the drafts, were subsequently killed overseas before the decade concluded, leaving behind a single remaining branch to exist in America. This was the only known Perry offspring to marry and procreate in their new homeland.

Of the eldest Perry brother’s two boys, Owen was the first-born son and Oliver the second. After a traditional upbringing, Owen followed his uncles’ lead and joined the military. They dispatched him to Vietnam shortly before the battles ended. Oliver encouraged his brother to be brave and to protect himself while traversing the foreign lands.

“Our uncles didn’t make it back, but you can,” Oliver insisted before pulling his sibling into his arms the day he departed. “I know you’ll return, you’re too strong not to. Fight hard. Fight so their deaths were not for nothing.”

Owen held true to the promise he’d made Oliver. Blessed early on by placement in minimal combat areas, he was one of the lucky soldiers who survived the harrowing experience with minor long-term damage. When Owen returned home, he desperately needed a change, opting to leave South Carolina in search of a more flourishing future. He found it in Philadelphia, working for a telecommunications company when networking technologies had just risen in popularity. A few years after he settled down, he suggested to his parents and Oliver that they move north to live with him.

“Never.” Twenty-one-year-old Oliver stood his ground, insisting Concepción still had the potential that his grandfather once saw. “I have to stay here. I can feel it in my bones; this is where I belong,” Oliver promised his parents while watching them drive off behind a moving truck full of their belongings.

Owen and Oliver’s parents had jumped at the chance for improvement in their lives, clearly not sharing Oliver’s confidence in the area, especially their mother. All smiles and hope, she marched behind Owen with a hop to her step. Convinced that Owen could conquer the world if he put his mind to it, and because he was determined to make such a substantial change, to take the adventure, the woman refused to bat an eye of hesitation.

While Oliver never traveled overseas like his brother, many of his friends had been drafted and served their country. When they returned home, mere shells of their former selves, Oliver knew he couldn’t leave them behind. He never understood the concept of men fighting to their deaths, countries aiming to destroy each other. “I must help my friends during their recoveries. They deserve my allegiance and support. The internet will be nothing big,” he assured his family. Oliver instead accepted various jobs working in several of the local mines, earning meager wages in the hopes he could prove his talent and climb his way up the ranks.

Several years passed, enabling Oliver to set his friends on a better path and settle into his own. Though he never ventured north to see his family, he led a fulfilling life and embarked on a search for the woman of his dreams. On a warm spring day, a thirtyish Oliver struck up a conversation with a young Latina preparing lunches at a nearby sandwich shop. Upon noticing the magnificent glow hovering just above her from the sun’s rays blasting through the window, he approached and teased the gorgeous creature who’d captured his attention. “Surely that entryway over there,” he began, offering a sweet and innocent smile while pointing to the screen door, “can’t be the pearly gates of Heaven… yet it must be so because you remind me of an exquisite angel.”

The beautiful shop worker of Latina descent had dealt with flirtatious, obnoxious men before, but something about this vibrant stranger felt different, almost exciting, despite his corny come-on. “If that were true, then certainly you wouldn’t have been allowed to cross the threshold. We’re very exclusive up here, you know. White knights need not apply either. We angels know how to take care of ourselves.” After a seductive flip of her long, shiny hair, she coyly shrugged and turned away from him. Upon catching his reflection in the bar’s mirror and noticing his dangerous grin and beautiful sapphire eyes staring back at her, she nervously blushed and concentrated on pouring a glass of sun tea.

As the ice cubes cracked and hissed from the still-too-warm-to-drink beverage, Oliver leaned over the edge of the counter and gently tugged on her apron’s drawstring. “I like your wild streak! But I could use something refreshing to cool me off. It suddenly got a bit hotter in here.” He paused, lifting the shirt collar away from his neck and watching the muscles in her back tense at the sound of his voice. “My name’s Oliver. And I can come up with a better line next time… perhaps when I take you to dinner. How’s Saturday night at eight? Casual, but special. I promise to step up my game.” When Nadia swiveled around, Oliver blinked his puppy-dog eyes and held a hand over his chest, crossing his heart to prove his honorable intentions. “Seriously, you truly take my breath away, and it’d be a privilege to spend time with you this weekend. Anywhere you’d like.”

She hesitated before offering the drink to Oliver, willing her hand to stop trembling and the glass to remain in her tenuous grip. When their fingers momentarily interlocked, an intense spark ignited. Physically, a powerful electric current raced through their bodies and penetrated their thoughts; a life-changing connection of unknown magnitude had surfaced. Emotionally, the woman knew instantly she’d found the man she would surely love. It had taken just over thirty years, but finally, he’d arrived.

“I’m Nadia. Today must be your lucky day. I happen to be free on Saturday, and given it is May 11th, my angel number, you’ve got yourself a date, Oliver.” She drank in the full-length picture of the charming man she’d frequently noticed around town. He’d likely have to research what an angel number was, but she appreciated his lack of questioning. “You’re not like those other guys who try to impress me with all their money and fancy cars. I’ve seen you in here before too. Normal. Real. Kind.”

“The type of guy you could fall for, huh?” Oliver smirked before offering his phone number, drinking a long sip of the sun tea, and placing his lunch order. “You can choose my meal.”

After spending numerous weekends getting to know one another, Oliver learned that Nadia’s parents had immigrated from Mexico and previously lived on the West Coast for many years. Due to a falling out with extended family, they’d trekked across the country and settled in Concepción, where Nadia was born just over three decades earlier. Rosalina, Nadia’s mother, had only been seventeen at the time. The couple raised their daughter together until Nadia’s unreliable and itinerant father disappeared when she was six. Rosalina did the best she could as a single parent from that point forward, but with money being tight and no family around, they’d lived a tough life. Even finding the cash to move back to the West Coast near her sister had been impossible, so they made the best of it. Though Rosalina often worked sixteen-hour shifts, she ensured any time with her daughter was extraordinarily special, as if the moon and the stars aligned for them to be together.

“Mija, te amo mas que la luna y las estrellas,” crooned Rosalina to her daughter each night.

Rosalina missed her sister, Nadia’s only aunt, tremendously. Because times were hard financially for both, along with extreme health issues on her sister’s part, the siblings were unable to close the gap physically to be together. While cleaning a large home in an affluent section of town on her thirty-third birthday, Rosalina accidentally toppled down a winding flight of stairs. Days later, she passed away from the injuries she’d sustained in the fall, never having seen her sister again since moving to South Carolina.

Given Nadia hadn’t heard from her father since he’d disappeared, she became an orphan at sixteen. An older neighbor had taken her in for a couple of years until Nadia finished high school and secured her own small apartment. Aside from a few conversations with her distant aunt, Nadia barely spent any time with anyone other than colleagues. When Oliver entered Nadia’s life on the fifteenth anniversary of her mother’s death, she concluded that Rosalina had sent her a gift from Heaven. She reached out and insisted that her aunt come for a visit soon. “I have no other family to introduce to Oliver. Por favor, Tia, my mother is gone. I need you.”

By the end of the year, Oliver and Nadia fell in love, married, and searched for a place to live. Nadia’s aunt made the trip for the wedding, thanks to her son, Nadia’s cousin, and his generous offer to foot the bill. The brief reunion was the happiest time of Nadia’s life, other than Oliver’s sweeping entry into her heart. The goodbyes after the wedding were incredibly painful and poignant for Nadia. For the first time since losing her mother, she’d experienced a genuine family connection and wasn’t willing to let it disappear.

While embracing her aunt, Nadia breathed in the woman’s scent of gardenia and wild rose, earning the wonderful aroma a permanent home in her memory. “Tia, you are so special to me. We cannot let a year pass without seeing one another again. I will visit you soon.”

The beautiful and hypnotic woman whispered several Spanish proverbs their family had treasured over the years. “I will be with you, no matter what happens to me. Now go make a baby with your new husband. This family needs to expand. It’ll be a girl. I know these things, child.”

Nadia glanced at her cousin, lost in the smell of sweet cigar and pine that clung to his body. “Take care of your mother. I worry about her. You too, don’t be a stranger, primo. Thank you for bringing your family to our wedding. And your son is such a handsome little devil. He’ll grow up to make someone incredibly happy one day.”

The week after they left, Nadia wandered around the perfume aisle of their local department store, searching for any sort of body spritz that resembled her much-missed family members’ scents. Although Nadia’s intentions were pure, the balance between races and ethnicities in Concepción was changing, challenging the safety and security of many Latino families who were often looked down upon by the wealthy and arrogant townsfolk. A woman behind the counter watched Nadia intently, certain she would try to steal something.

“Is there anything I can help you find, miss?” the store attendant asked with an increasing doubt in her eyes and fear in her voice. “Seems you’ve been sniffing for some time.”

“No.” Nadia averted her gaze to the floor. “Thank you, but no. I’ve smelled them all, and you’re right. I’ve spent way too much time obsessing. I can’t find an exact match to what I’m looking for. I’ll go.” As she exited, Nadia knew what the attendant had been thinking, but she was too ensconced in family memories to let it hurt. Having Oliver in her life had changed her outlook, and she was eager to move forward with him.

Once the area’s economic depression ended, Nadia insisted it was time to stop renting and that it would be a wise financial move to buy a place with Oliver. Given the declining wealth in the county, legislators had begun grandfathering several local neighborhoods with the ability to divide their larger houses into two separate homes. Each half would still connect via a common wall and split equal backyard rights; it was often called a duplex on a single, shared lot. Nadia rambled on and on for days about the vibe in the western half of a run-down twin home on Street 211 that offered an amazing view of a treasured lake. She frequently remarked how the numbers lined up, highlighting the Angel number 211.

“It’s a number that’s meant to bring peace and balance to life!” she proclaimed, excitement radiating across every curve of her gorgeous face.

With one hand on his hip and the other softly combing over a slight five o’clock shadow, Oliver studied Nadia’s striking features. Her smile seemed as vast as the seas, and the gleam in her eyes practically swallowed him whole. He lowered his shoulders a notch in surrender. Very well knowing that he’d go through with the purchase either way, he wanted nothing more than to listen to her argument and intention for the space.

He swept an arm through the air and teased, “I don’t know, love. I’m not entirely convinced. You’re going to have to walk me through it one more time. Maybe explain this Angel number nonsense to me a bit better.” Oliver had to bite his bottom lip to keep from laughing or showing his true intentions.

At first, she scowled at him for the comment, then quickly jumped for joy at the chance of another walk-through. Especially now that she had his complete attention and could delve into better detail on Angel numbers and their meanings. Nadia was a major numerology buff; it was kind of her thing. Nadia’s mother had always warned her about the number thirty-three too, something about it being bad luck for females in their family. Generations of women had either died or learned devastating news in that year of their lives. Nadia waffled between casting it off as nonsensical and recognizing the importance of various numbers around her. She would turn thirty-three the following year, but it wasn’t something Nadia wanted to alarm her husband about.

Oliver didn’t understand it much. Seeing the excitement in Nadia’s eyes as if her spirit were sparked to life by the thought of a number’s logical connection to everything in the universe, this practically melted him on the inside. It could only prove successful if the numbers surrounding them lined up positively. Naturally, Oliver agreed, as ‘a happy wife meant a happy life.’ Yet another reason he was grateful to have stayed behind when his own family skipped town and grew exceedingly distant. They hadn’t even made it back for the wedding because of some important trip to the Pacific Northwest.

After buying the property at a reduced price from an elderly woman moving into a nursing home, Nadia and Oliver shared high hopes they could renovate the place over time, perhaps when they earned enough money to survive beyond each week’s income. Living paycheck to paycheck was no easy plight. Yet they’d created a euphoric life, even with all the financial concerns and the threat of their neighborhood’s gentrification, pushing them out because she was of Mexican descent. Most of Concepción was Caucasian by that period, like Oliver, and outsiders weren’t always welcomed. Despite the non-acceptance of their mixed relationship by many small minds in the community, their love was intense. It grew stronger by the day, and newlywed bliss blossomed into an insanely passionate affair. Shortly before their first anniversary, Nadia surprised her husband with news of her pregnancy.

“No, we were supposed to wait another year. Please, tell me it’s not true,” Oliver begged, remembering their discussions about saving more money. He waffled between elation and concern over the possibilities of fathering a baby. He loved his wife more than anyone else in the world, but he worried about their child fitting in with the rest of the neighborhood given all its changes. What if its growing intolerance of people’s different ethnic backgrounds should eventually tip the scales and send them packing? Following in his brother’s footsteps, even asking for a handout from Owen, would never happen. Oliver was too proud for such nonsense and humility. No matter what, he was determined to take care of his family on his own.

Nadia insisted the timing was right and implored Oliver to understand. “It’s a sign from God, mi amor,” she persuaded him one sunny day from her perch on their cracked cement patio, amusing herself by crocheting a baby blanket for their first-born child. “It’s going to be a girl, I’m certain. My aunt predicted it.” Nadia’s free spirit was finely tuned to her emotions and the surrounding energies. Rarely was she wrong about impactful certainties.

The adorable little bump of Nadia’s belly served as Oliver’s favorite place to nuzzle up next to as the sun set each night, and together they gazed at the stars. He drew circles with his fingertips on Nadia’s skin and listened to the soothing tone of her voice. “You’ve convinced me, beautiful. We’re going to be amazing parents. Between your loving nature and my protective spirit, our girl will be extraordinarily special.”

“Mama promised the angels were looking out for me.” Nadia regaled Oliver with stories of the constellations, the Milky Way, and the moon Rosalina pointed out every night in the brilliant starry sky. She’d tracked every full moon and every aligning of the planets since then.

Oliver could listen to his wife ramble about her passions all day every day, perfectly content no matter the monthly ending balance of their bank account. “I worry so much. It’s just you and me. How will we overcome this with no family around?”

“Trust. Faith,” she reminded him, tickling his back with her delicate fingers. “El mundo está a tu alcance.”

For months, the couple grew closer and prepared for impending parenthood. But during Nadia’s third trimester, Oliver and Owen’s parents unexpectedly perished in a train derailment that shocked the family to its core. Since retiring, they’d been traveling around the country even more than previous years, chasing after dreams and learning about the nation’s history. The phone call came in the early morning hours, just as Oliver was packing his lunch for work.

“Hello,” he answered tremulously, the cord on the phone swaying back and forth through the eerily silent room as if calculating an imminent doom.

“Oliver,” a hollow tone announced. It was Owen, his morning voice gruff and broken. “I don’t even know how to say this... I’m... I’m just so devastated.”

Oliver slid his back down the wall and listened silently to the details. The news of their death slammed him hard, as if it were Oliver himself that bore the impact of the speeding railway car. The guilt of their distance, both physically and emotionally, for all the lost time instantly compacted. Oliver carried the ensuing pain in his chest like an enormous rock settling in a tiny stream, causing the water to first well, then split and divert around it to flow forward.

“I can’t afford the ticket. Everything we’ve got saved is for the baby. For our precious little one,” Oliver muttered with increasing shame and sorrow. “Maybe I could borrow it from you? Just this once. I promise to pay it back quickly.”

Reluctantly, Owen funded Oliver’s flight to Philadelphia and attendance at their parents’ funeral. He’d always reprimanded his brother for not securing a better job and following him north to build a real future for himself. Nadia remained in Concepción as it wasn’t recommended for her to travel that late in her pregnancy. The two held their breath, hoping she wouldn't go into early labor during his absence.

Nadia ached for her grieving husband. She wanted nothing more than to pull him into her arms and carry his burdens as her own. All the while Oliver shut down to her emotionally. He tried to protect her from the details of his travels as not to put extra stress on her and the baby. Losing both parents simultaneously, when he’d never earned enough money or time to take a trip to see them, had devastated his core. They’d intended on a traveling back to Concepción to visit him many times, but always wound up going to places they’d never seen instead. Oliver wished he would have insisted on the time off at work, and accepted his parents open-ended offer to pay for him to make the trip up-coast.

The funeral for Oliver’s parents was private, elegant with fresh white roses framing the pulpit behind their matching black caskets trimmed in gold. The brothers took turns reciting sentimental memories, recalling their parents’ best qualities throughout the years. It was a cathartic celebration of life, albeit briefly, because Oliver also wanted to return home to Nadia.

“There’s a special place back home in Concepción… Lake Remembrance,” Oliver tearfully addressed the crowd. “It was the single part of South Carolina that my mother truly loved. My expectant wife and I purchased a home that overlooks it. It destroys my soul that Momma will never get to see it or to hold her grandbaby in her arms while soaking in the lake's scenery from our home.”

Like many bitter-sweet goodbyes, a cutting bite of reality between the brothers waited to jump out and capture Oliver by surprise. No sooner than the last guests had departed the graveside service, Oliver and Owen bickered terribly about their parents’ estate. Oliver falsely assumed they’d leave him money, but nothing remained to their name. They’d spent all of it on their trips to California, Washington, and Oregon. They’d loved the beautiful landscape of the West Coast but never moved because they didn’t want to be too far from Owen and their grandchildren. Owen had been taking care of them and his wife and twin sons for the last few years of their lives. Oliver was upset that he hadn't been notified of their dire situation, and he lashed out at his brother for abandoning their hometown and letting their parents travel so much. Furious at Oliver’s attitude and accusations, Owen demanded that Oliver leave his house and never return. The fervent discord created a wedge between the brothers that never fully repaired itself.

“Why didn’t they tell me?” Oliver muttered aloud from the sticky and tattered bus seat on his way to the airport. He pulled his fingers through his hair in frustration. “How could I have been so blind?”

He regretted how much time he’d lost with his parents, especially in the last few years when they’d grown both physically and emotionally distant. All his father ever talked about was the strange weather, Owen’s amazing accomplishments, and the infamous serial killer captivating and frightening the nation. “They call him the Fashionista. Superb, Ollie, my boy. Superb name!” Disinterested in small talk, Oliver never allocated his dad the proper time to rebuild their once stalwart bond.

When Oliver returned home, virulent anger and an obsidian darkness settled inside him. With the stress of money and lack of extended family, his temper grew exceedingly short, and his patience wore thinner than mountaintop air. Cheap rum remained Oliver's vice, and the two lovebirds spent more time apart. Nadia wanted to help her husband, but something had changed in him and she never understood why. What he didn't realize was that his silence made her worry even worse until she ultimately built a tiny wall around her heart. “Oliver, you are different to me lately. I am scared of what’s happening to us.” Many nights after work, Oliver took to drinking in solitude while Nadia spent most of her time at the diner or with friends, away from home. She focused her energy on calming phone calls, talking to her sick aunt on the West Coast, heartbroken that she’d never been able to locate her wayward father.

Oliver failed to understand the connection, after all they’d only met the woman and her son once. “Families can be a big disappointment. Look at my brother, he is so heartless.” Nonetheless, the death of his parents was a hard-enough pill to swallow, and he knew that distance between Nadia and her only remaining family would help ease the eventual grief. Unlike the pain in his own heavy heart that sucked the care for any other priorities right out of him.

“Come back to me, Oliver. You are growing obsessed, too distant. We will be parents soon. Think of our baby girl,” Nadia prayed in the bedroom one night, her back aching and feet swelling so large it was difficult to get out of bed. “Por favor Dios, protégenos.”

Oliver heard her from the hall and rushed to her side. He half-grinned and gently caressed her cheek, then shook his head. “Soon, Nadia… I hope to recover soon. Maybe you should invite your aunt back again. I don’t know what I was thinking. You must miss your mother so much.”

On the twentieth of February, the day their child was keen to emerge, Oliver inexplicably snapped from his depression and tended lovingly to his wife. “I feel stronger. I am so sorry for how I’ve acted these last few weeks. Let’s focus on the next steps of our journey together.”

As the sun sought protection behind the mountains from a monumental squall settling in Concepción that evening, Nadia suffered an aneurysm while delivering their daughter. It was a struggle to push another human being out of her body and into the world she’d not yet come to know. The massive lightning storm that flashed and bolted around Nadia as she gave birth felt extraordinarily ominous and daunting. Localized power issues at the hospital the entire evening caused the bulbs to flicker and the neonatal monitors to stall and freeze at whim. “We’re losing her, Doctor. It’s as if something with the weather is trying to wash her away!” Unbeknownst to them, a cosmic event was destined to initiate their impending little girl’s journey, one that would not be easy to navigate.

As the baby appeared, barely four pounds if any at all, and sucked in her first soul-reviving breath outside the womb, Nadia feverishly repeated in a panicky whisper, “Thirty-three, it is the family curse. It will happen when you reach thirty-three. Her name must be Abigail. Tell her about me, Oliver.” It was the mantra of a hysterical and terror-stricken woman entering a final abyss of darkness. Seconds later, Nadia’s brain activity ceased on every level of the monitor. Her heartbeat flat-lined with the most penetrating of drawn-out, nauseating beeps. Doctors struggled to bring her back, conducting no less than four attempts at resuscitation with the paddles and dozens of wishful chest compressions. Their actions did nothing but entice Oliver to beg them to save his beloved wife.

“Nadia!” he shouted at the nurses who were caring for his newborn daughter. “My wife is dying! Her!” He pointed his finger across the room and yelled in their faces, “It’s her who needs you!”

Unfortunately, in a cruel twist of fate, just as Abigail Perry entered their world, Nadia exited it and forever changed Oliver’s life. Although he’d never admit it aloud, Oliver blamed Abigail for her mother’s death just as much as he did himself. The ill-prepared widower believed with every bone in his body that if he’d secured a stable job offering quality health insurance, they could have afforded to birth their child in a better hospital. One that could have withstood damages from the torrential storm and maintained its backup power longer than a half-dozen excruciating minutes. One that wouldn’t have left him a broken parent to a child he didn’t want to raise on his own.

“I have lost so much this year, God! Why have you forsaken me?!” Oliver dropped to the ground in the fetal position, closed his heavy eyes, and sank further into his depression. “I no longer wish to live. Please take me too.”

On the very same day, the Staunton family moved into their new home, the eastern half of the duplex at Street 211. Bradford Staunton, only a handful of years older than Oliver Perry, had been born in Boston to a wealthy banking family in 1950. After a spoiled and privileged upbringing and a four-year stint in the military, he attended college in Pennsylvania, where he eventually met and married a stunning ingenue named Elizabeth Grey.

A gorgeous couple, the pair demonstrated the level of commitment to one another that even the most secure people could be jealous of. After building their own advertising business, the Stauntons explored the country, searching for the ideal places to raise their future children. They settled in Maryland in a gorgeous country home not too far from Washington, D.C.

Blessed with just one daughter, Margaret was born on Christmas Day in 1974. Bradford and Elizabeth tried for other children, but it wasn’t in the cards for them. Margaret was a treasure, a flawless child who made them the happiest parents.

“My sweet Margaret, you remind me of my mother.” Elizabeth cuddled her newborn next to a beautifully lit Christmas tree trimmed with satin and gold. “A gift we will cherish.” She ran a finger softly down her baby’s cheek, comforted by the smooth warmth of the new life she’d created. Elizabeth had lost her mother when she was a teenager and was subsequently raised by her father, a civil rights attorney with a heart of gold but limited time.

“She’s perfect,” Bradford agreed, a proud sparkle in his eyes. He wished only that his own parents were still alive to have met his child. They’d died in the previous two years, one from old age and the other a rare heart condition, their wealth mostly liquidated by that point.

At an early age, Margaret showed an aptitude for the scholarly and academic life, particularly learning about the law and the legislative branch of the government. Her granddaddy, Elizabeth’s father, encouraged her interest until he passed away when she was ten. The following year, Margaret joined her middle school’s debate team, leading them to a state championship along with earning a free trip to Washington, D.C. Margaret discovered her passion for studying the ideals of her country’s Constitution and ensuring all of its people were treated fairly and honestly.

Bradford and Elizabeth were proud of their only offspring. When they returned home from the trip to visit the government buildings and monuments, they enrolled her in an all-girls academy that had earned a reputation for churning out successful women with illustrious careers. While they were meeting with the school’s head administrator, Margaret babysat a neighbor’s child and secured herself a part-time job.

“I’ve always wanted a younger sister,” Margaret told the child's parents when she arrived at their home. They asked her a few questions, reluctant at first to leave their daughter with such a young girl. “Since I’m an only child, watching other kids is as close as I can get.”

Soon, Margaret volunteered to babysit for several families in the neighborhood. It served as an eager replacement solution for a younger sibling. During those times, she earned money and developed her skills as a future mentor and leader. Little did the Stauntons realize, one fateful night would change everything about life as they knew it.

The evening had been fairly quiet as Margaret put the five-year-old to bed just after sunset. The child had seemed unusually tired that evening too. While watching one of her favorite movies, a noise on the opposite side of the window alarmed Margaret. She investigated twice but found no one outside. A single scrap of fabric, lustrous bluish-green silk, appeared stuck to a branch on a rosebush. It could’ve been there for days, she convinced herself.

Chills percolated up and down her spine when a shadow subsequently traversed the back-porch threshold. Not one to scare easily, something about that night increasingly agitated her. By nine o’clock, the little girl’s father returned home. Since his wife had to stay late to talk to a few colleagues, he drove back sooner. Margaret mentioned the possible prowler and the resonating fear that wasn’t her usual reaction.

The unconcerned and foolish man blew her off with the wave of a wrist. “Maybe a deer scampered by, or a raccoon overturned a garbage can lid. We do live on the edge of the woods!”

The next day, Bradford and Elizabeth pulled a frightened Margaret from school during her lunch period. After Margaret had left the house from her babysitting job the previous night, the little girl's dismissive father had been brutally murdered. A heinous calling card, the shiny silk scrap, was left behind, and the police were certain the infamous Fashionista serial killer had struck again. He or she had come to the East Coast for undetermined reasons. It was the latest murder in a string stretching over thirty years. Contradictory, disjointed information had led the FBI in all the wrong directions, yet the Fashionista had now killed nine men, all with a similar appearance, one every four to six years. His first victim had died in Seattle in 1952, and the most recent, thirty-four years later, had just occurred in their hometown. A mere few houses away.

Bradford and Elizabeth worried for their daughter’s safety, especially when she mentioned hearing noises outside the house that night.

“What if the serial killer thinks she saw his face?” Elizabeth wailed, frightened that the creep would come after Margaret next. Even though the murderer had only killed white men in their late thirties who’d previously been in the military, Bradford insisted he had to protect his family. He’d served in the army once, even celebrated his thirty-sixth birthday earlier that year. Would the killer attack Bradford, in order to get to Margaret?

As they discussed their next move days later, Elizabeth noticed that her husband’s music box, a family heirloom, had gone missing. In its place was a note from the serial killer. “I’m watching you. Keep the girl silent. It might convince me not to come after her.” Months later, when Margaret asked about their family’s prized possession, Bradford and Elizabeth told her they had lost it in the move. Frightening their daughter any further was not an option.

“I’m nervous, Bradford. We have to leave,” Elizabeth demanded with panic underscoring her voice. “Don’t let him find us.”

For weeks they searched for secluded towns to escape to. Any place in the country would be an option. Somewhere in the mountains, near a lake or a village with important history but a tranquil place to vanish. Ultimately, they’d pointed to a map and landed on Concepción, South Carolina. Based on Bradford’s research and the potential for work opportunities, they submitted an offer on their new home.

"It’s perfect," Elizabeth beamed with confidence. "We won’t have to worry about what Margaret saw. Surely the killer will leave us be. A fresh start in a hidden place is the change we need."

Bradford nodded. “Of course. You know best, dear.” He wasn't entirely convinced of their safety, but for the peace of mind of his girls, he'd make a major life alteration. Hell, he'd relocate to a whole different country if needed. Anything for Elizabeth and Margaret's happiness and wellbeing.

Saddened by the move, Margaret knew there was little she could do to stop her parents. She understood their fears, and part of her was frightened too. Being that close to a serial killer had driven her to pursue a career in law, perhaps even politics one day.

While Bradford secured his job transfer to South Carolina, thrilled to build a satellite office for his company not too far from the state capital, Elizabeth prepared for their move. By the following month, they’d bought the eastern half of the duplex at Street 211. It was slightly outdated and bland, but they would renovate and make it their own.

On the morning of February twentieth, while moving in during unusual and chaotic weather, the Stauntons met Oliver and Nadia Perry on the front steps. The two couples forged an instant bond. Oliver had not yet drunk an ounce of liquor that day, and Nadia's belly had dropped a few inches.

Upon their neighborly self-introductions, Elizabeth instinctively placed her warm, light olive hands on Nadia's tummy. Her soothing touch instantly comforted Nadia. Nadia watched the way Elizabeth and Margaret interacted as mother and daughter. They were happy, moving boxes and furniture as a team, not to mention that she and Oliver would no longer be the only interracial couple in their neighborhood. Although not obvious to the untrained eye, Nadia knew Elizabeth’s ancestral lines must’ve crossed many cultures like her own.

Nadia traced the outer edge of her lowering stomach and promised her baby, "The universe has blessed us, my little angel. Not only did you wait until after the twentieth to make your way into this world as a Pisces, like me, but we'll never be alone in this duplex. The Stantons are here for you, for us. I can feel it. Maybe Mama sent them to us. Maybe the family curse for women at thirty-three has been vanquished."

Oliver shook Bradford's hand, querying from where he’d come before South Carolina. When Bradford announced that his family formerly lived in Maryland, but that he and Elizabeth had met in Pennsylvania, Oliver gasped and threw his stained, weathered hands to his face.

“I just spent some time in the north,” he blurted out, casting his eyes downward and away from his neighbor. “Not my favorite place. Bad, bad memories.”

Twelve-year-old Margaret strolled up the walkway and brusquely stopped short when she noticed Oliver for the first time. As Elizabeth introduced her daughter, Margaret studied his blanched complexion and gritted teeth, then stated with a dollop of fear in her voice, “You look really familiar. I can’t figure out why, though.”

Oliver’s eyes darted further away. “I just have that kind of face. Anyway, I should get going. Gotta check on my wife, take her to the hospital before this storm gets too close. Good meeting, y’all.”

As he wandered into the duplex with determined and heavy steps, Margaret shivered, questioning the startling wave of darkness she feared was entering their lives. Though not one to worry easily, the near encounter with the serial killer had impacted her much more than she’d realized. “Something bad is about to happen,” she whispered when a strike of lightning cracked and scorched a piece of the dry earth in their front yard. “Very, very bad.”

2

INEXPERIENCE IN THE EARLY YEARS

Oliver stares at a willowy nurse with a vacant expression and watches her place several extra items into a bag for his baby girl. A new doctor, one he isn’t sure if he’s seen before, scrolls through a clipboard of discharge papers, monotonously dictating instructions. They’ve let Abigail stay in the hospital’s nursery for nearly a week. Not because she’s needed the attention, or that she isn’t a healthy baby, but because Oliver begged them to grant him enough time to bury his wife before being forced to take the child back with him to an empty home.