woman scorned... was a deadly one.
He came in deep thought and silence that evening,
an
gry, but not at all sure, in his conscious mind,
just what he intended. In the darkness, he stared at the house, and
reflected on all that had been, and all that might come to
pass.
The house...the majestic house sat as always. A place
with as rich and deep a character as any living person. So it
had been from the moment they had first broken ground. Time did.
nothing but add to the drama that must exist in such a place, as he
well knew.
She was there.
He knew that she was there.
And there were things that must be said. Things that must be
cleared, or ended, between them.
Still...
He stared at the house. And waited. He denied in his mind
that he had come with any malice as to his intent.
His heart felt like stone. Seeds of ideas played deep down
within his soul, truth and the physical essence of what must be
banned from thought. What happened must happen.
At his sides, his hands flexed, eased, and flexed
again,
as if already slipping around the throat of the
lover he knew to be inside.
Because a woman scorned...
Just might as well be dead.
* * *
Darcy awoke with a start, shaking. She had felt the past, as if
it had entered into her. Felt not so much a person, but the fury
and malevolence that had been part of a distant time.
She sat up in bed, and looked around the room, closed her eyes
again, and opened them.
Whatever had been with her, whatever remnant of emotion,
was gone.
And yet...
Something else was there.
Something, someone, quiet, stealthy.
Watching.
Waiting.
_______ 4____
"We all know why we've come." Elizabeth Holmes' voice, though
feminine, had a deep resonance. She wasn't exactly what Darcy had
been expecting when she had heard that a local novice-who had found
her dedication to the occult in the last year-had begged Matt Stone
to allow her to run a seance. She wasn't theatrical. There was no
turban wrapped around her head, and her eyes weren't dark and deep
set and heavily lined with makeup to add to a mystical image.
Rather, the woman was about fifty-five or sixty, slender, tall,
elegantly slim, with nicely styled silver-white hair and pleasant,
powder blue eyes. She looked like a typical businesswoman.
Only her voice might have fit the image of the eerie Gypsy
fortune teller.
It seemed to fill the dining room at Melody House with a strange
tenor, as if the walls themselves were part of a state-of-the-art
speaker system.
And thankfully, the woman hadn't opted to rename herself.
She wasn't going by Madame Zara, or anything like that. She was
Elizabeth Holmes, a native of the northern Virginia area, and a
real estate agent by day. Darcy had wondered at first if this
medium wouldn't prove to be a slightly crazy friend who was
convinced that she needed only to dress the part to have the
powers. She seemed to be a very nice woman, and committed to what
she was doing. Whether she really had any ESP or not remained to be
seen.
And her opening was intriguing.
"Melody House. She has stood upon this hill since the year of
our Lord seventeen-seventeen. And she has, in her years, hosted
both joy and tragedy. She is one of the few such surviving grand
old homes of our nation still owned by descendants of her original
builders. George Washington slept here!" Elizabeth paused,
smiling at the group gathered around the dining room table in the
muted candlelight. "George got around, it's a wonder Martha
wasn't a great deal more upset! But I digress. Washington wasn't
her only well-known guest. The likes of Patrick Henry, Thomas
Jefferson, and others of tremendous renown who lived in
Revolutionary times came here as well, and later, she was hostess
to many great statesmen and generals of another sad period of
war-Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, Jeb Stuart, and then,
even Ulysses Grant and Abe Lincoln were thought to have taken rest
at this place. Bullets once riddled the walls, and many still
remain, from battles
He came in deep thought and silence that evening,
an
gry, but not at all sure, in his conscious mind,
just what he intended. In the darkness, he stared at the house, and
reflected on all that had been, and all that might come to
pass.
The house...the majestic house sat as always. A place
with as rich and deep a character as any living person. So it
had been from the moment they had first broken ground. Time did.
nothing but add to the drama that must exist in such a place, as he
well knew.
She was there.
He knew that she was there.
And there were things that must be said. Things that must be
cleared, or ended, between them.
Still...
He stared at the house. And waited. He denied in his mind
that he had come with any malice as to his intent.
His heart felt like stone. Seeds of ideas played deep down
within his soul, truth and the physical essence of what must be
banned from thought. What happened must happen.
At his sides, his hands flexed, eased, and flexed
again,
as if already slipping around the throat of the
lover he knew to be inside.
Because a woman scorned...
Just might as well be dead.
* * *
Darcy awoke with a start, shaking. She had felt the past, as if
it had entered into her. Felt not so much a person, but the fury
and malevolence that had been part of a distant time.
She sat up in bed, and looked around the room, closed her eyes
again, and opened them.
Whatever had been with her, whatever remnant of emotion,
was gone.
And yet...
Something else was there.
Something, someone, quiet, stealthy.
Watching.
Waiting.
_______ 4____
"We all know why we've come." Elizabeth Holmes' voice, though
feminine, had a deep resonance. She wasn't exactly what Darcy had
been expecting when she had heard that a local novice-who had found
her dedication to the occult in the last year-had begged Matt Stone
to allow her to run a seance. She wasn't theatrical. There was no
turban wrapped around her head, and her eyes weren't dark and deep
set and heavily lined with makeup to add to a mystical image.
Rather, the woman was about fifty-five or sixty, slender, tall,
elegantly slim, with nicely styled silver-white hair and pleasant,
powder blue eyes. She looked like a typical businesswoman.
Only her voice might have fit the image of the eerie Gypsy
fortune teller.
It seemed to fill the dining room at Melody House with a strange
tenor, as if the walls themselves were part of a state-of-the-art
speaker system.
And thankfully, the woman hadn't opted to rename herself.
She wasn't going by Madame Zara, or anything like that. She was
Elizabeth Holmes, a native of the northern Virginia area, and a
real estate agent by day. Darcy had wondered at first if this
medium wouldn't prove to be a slightly crazy friend who was
convinced that she needed only to dress the part to have the
powers. She seemed to be a very nice woman, and committed to what
she was doing. Whether she really had any ESP or not remained to be
seen.
And her opening was intriguing.
"Melody House. She has stood upon this hill since the year of
our Lord seventeen-seventeen. And she has, in her years, hosted
both joy and tragedy. She is one of the few such surviving grand
old homes of our nation still owned by descendants of her original
builders. George Washington slept here!" Elizabeth paused,
smiling at the group gathered around the dining room table in the
muted candlelight. "George got around, it's a wonder Martha
wasn't a great deal more upset! But I digress. Washington wasn't
her only well-known guest. The likes of Patrick Henry, Thomas
Jefferson, and others of tremendous renown who lived in
Revolutionary times came here as well, and later, she was hostess
to many great statesmen and generals of another sad period of
war-Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, Jeb Stuart, and then,
even Ulysses Grant and Abe Lincoln were thought to have taken rest
at this place. Bullets once riddled the walls, and many still
remain, from battles
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