The Blood That Defines Us Read online

  MajankaVerstraete

  TheBlood That DefinesUs

  The Blood That Defines Us

  Majanka Verstraete

  Copyright © 2011 Majanka Verstraete The Blood That Defines Us

  First Edition, eBook – published 2011

  Evermore eBook Publishing: http://evermore.eternalised.net ISBN-13: 978-1461121817

  ISBN-10: 1461121817

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted mechanical, in any form or by any means, electronic or

  including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

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

  Every house has its own history and its own secrets. Some secrets are just darker than others. And some are even downright terrifying.

  When the Johnsons moved into their new house, they didn’t expect that weird things would start to happen, objects would move on their own, and that the house’s history would come back to haunt them.

  But I did. i

  For my father.

  1

  CHAPTER ONE

  I look at them as they park their car on the driveaway. Their happy, care-free and joyous voices shatter through the air like the twittering of birds.

  The husband looks rather young, although I suspect he is at least forty years old. He wears glasses, which suits him, and his jaw is straight and masculine. He reminds me of my father.

  The woman steps out of the vehicle as well. She is about a head shorter than her husband, and she looks rather fragile compared to him. Her hair is short and blonde, and obviously has been cut recently. She seems like a woman who takes care of herself, who likes to be pretty and who enjoys being admired.

  I notice her hands right away. They are small, delicate and spotless. The hands of an author, an artist, a painter. I shiver as those hands reminded me of my mother’s. She too was an artist, a painter, a musician, a poet, a miracle worker with anything from paint to pianos to words. I have not inherited these qualities from her, since I am clumsy with musical instruments, and I do not have the patience nor talent required to write a decent piece of prose, or even something as small and personal as a poem.

  I softly shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts from my mind, and focus on the boy and girl who step out of the car. The boy is short, and young. I guess he is about nine or ten years old. His hair is reddish, his face quite pale, and he looks like the type that would burn easily when exposed to too much sunlight. He is playing with some electronical device that I do not recognize. Times do change quickly.

  Eventually, I fix my attention to the girl. She is about my age, give or take a couple of years. Her hair is light blonde, a shade or two lighter than her mother’s, and shoulder-length. She has blue eyes, and a fair skin. Instantly, I feel jealous.

  Even though she is a complete stranger, she resembles my mother, my beautiful, sophisticated and talented mother, more than I ever had. My own mother had looked a bit like this girl, albeit she was even more beautiful. My father had married her for her many talents, and her exquisite looks. But although resembling an angel descended from the heavens, my mother did not have a very intelligent brain to match. For that, my father often overlooked her when making important decisions, or treated her indifferently.

  I am more like my father, both personality-wise and appearancewise. My father was a very stubborn, headstrong man, too intelligent for his era, too brilliant for the work he was forced to do. He had short, black hair, and the darkest of eyes. Those eyes had often scared me when I was younger, because they could hold such darkness and such malice. It still saddens me to realize that I am his resemblance in every way. My hair is long and black, my skin the palest of pale, and my eyes are like dark pools in which people could drown. No, I am not beautiful by any standard. And I do envy all the people that are, like the girl who had just left that vehicle. I envy them, and I pity them. For with beauty, often comes pain.

  The mother lifts something from the backseat of the car. My eyes narrow in curiosity – a personality trait that is not always appreciated. She then carries a young girl, of around age five, in her arms. The girl is pretty, a little princess, with bright red cheeks and curly blonde hair. She vaguely reminds me of the doll I used to have when I was younger, Emily. I see the little girl’s lips move, and ask her mother something, but I cannot make out the words from where I am standing.

  I smirk as I regard the little girl. So it is really starting all over again.

  2

  CHAPTER TWO

  The oldest girl’s name is Evie, that much I gathered. She isn’t too different from the last couple of girls I have met who were around her age. She is rather shallow, superficial and more interested in boys than in anything else. Her favorite color is purple, her favorite musician is Britney Spears, and she spends most of her time talking with her friends from Boston, or bickering with her little brother.

  The little brother, by the way, is called Jonathan. I do not like him all that much, but he isn’t very troublesome. He doesn’t make a lot of noise, and he doesn’t complain about everything, like kids that age often do. He is just there, enjoying himself in silence while playing one of his electronical games. His behavior reminds me a lot of Richard. He hadn’t been all that troublesome either, and he too had enjoyed playing on computers and the likes.

  It is the little girl who interests me the most, of course. Her name is Marie, which I find both fitting and amusing, although I often catch myself calling her “Emily” in my mind. I have to keep telling myself that Emily is just a doll, not a little girl, and that I shouldn’t mix the two up.

  Marie is five years old, but rather clever for her age. She talks fluently, and she can count to ten. She told me that on the first day I talked to her, and proved the truth of her words by doing so. I told her that was very good, and that I would soon teach her to count till one hundred. The smile on her face when I told her how incredibly talented I thought she was, was priceless.

  She asked to see where I lived. Naturally, I couldn’t show her. Not yet, of course. I did promise to show her one day though, and I intent to keep that promise. She’s a nice little girl, and I think we’ll get along just fine.

  The father is called William. He spends most of his time redecorating the old mansion they are currently inhabiting, and the rest of his time is spent looking for work. From what I gathered, he lost his job in the big city when the economic crisis came, and he was forced to move to cheaper living circumstances. Much cheaper than here, it can’t get.

  And then there is the mother. Her name is Isabelle. French, like Marie. She is originally from France as well, and I enjoy listening to her odd English accent, or to her rattling about in French. She plays the piano like she was born to play it, and although I must admit that at first I was rather frustrated that they put the big piece of junk in the middle of the living room, I started to enjoy her music quite quickly. It helps me to relax.

  She is an artist by trade, like I presumed, and spends the rest of her days painting aquarels, drawing sketches of the house’s insides and outside, or writing short stories about her life as a middleclass housewife.

  It feels good to have a family so close again, in a weird way. I do enjoy company every now and then, and the Johnsons may prove to be quite…interesting.

  3

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Do you like my room?” Marie asks me, her voice twittery and innocent. I urge her to speak more quietly, so her parents won’t overhear.

  “I suppose,” I answer. Her room is sunny and bright, and I do not enjoy the sun all that much. But for a children’s room, it is pretty decent. I like what the Johnsons have done to the small room, by adding butterfly wallpaper and new curtains. It is the perfect room for a little girl. It’s the location I’m not all that fond of.

  Marie’s bedroom, with its bright pink colors and the white wooden furniture, is right where the nursery used to be. That isn’t a problem of course, but it might be inconvenient. “You suppose?” Marie asks me, her voice one giant display of disappointment. “I thought you would love it.”

  I shrug. “Do you want me to help you put your stuff away or not?” I ask. I know that I’m not being the nicest person in the world, but I feel rather gloomy today.

  “Yes,” Marie replies. She lifts up one of the small boxes in the corner of the room, and puts it on her bed. Then she opens the lit and reveals some pyjamas. “We can start with these,” she comments, as she grabs one of the pyjamas and walks over to the dresser.

  I focus my attention from her to the box, and grab one of the pieces of clothing myself. Then I suddenly hear her gasp.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, worry sounding through my voice. I really do have her best interests at heart. She pulls something from the drawer. I blink in surprise as I see what exactly it is that she’s holding.

  The object Marie found in the old dresser, is a porcelain doll with a light-green dress and curly blonde hair. The doll looks expensive, despite the filth in her hair, and the stains on her dress. I remember her. That’s Emily.

  Back when I was a child, I loved to play with Emily. She was my favorite toy in the entire world. I dragged her along anywhere,
until my mother would take her from my tight embrace while I was asleep, so she could at least clean her up a bit. I had forgotten about that beautiful little porcelain doll.

  “Have you ever seen this before?” Marie asks me. She looks at the doll like any child looks at a precious toy: she wants it, and she can already imagine herself holding the doll and playing with her.

  “I have,” I answer. “Her name is Emily. I used to play with her when I was a child. I haven’t seen her in years.” I softly caress Emily’s hair, and smile at Marie then.

  “You should take her,” I tell her. “Emily deserves to be with a young girl your age. I’m way too old to play with her now.” “Are you serious?” Marie asks, her eyes shining from happiness at my words.

  “Of course I am, Marie,” I tell her. “Who else should I give it to? You know you’re my favorite, right? Now, you have to promise me something.”

  *** Damn him. He has taken the doll away from her, causing her to cry. He is going on and on about old toys and the numerous bacteria on them. Then he asks her how she had gotten it, and where she had found it.

  Naturally, Marie collapses and tells him the truth. That I have given it to her.

  He merely shakes his head in anger, and thrws the doll in the trashbin. Marie cries her eyes out. It doen’t surprise me to see that, after his anger has cooled off, Isabelle grabs the doll from the trash bin, and starts cleaning her up.

  William isn’t all that different from my own father, I realize now. He too is a bully, a mean man, a horrible man.

  I gently stroke Marie’s hair while her two parents are arguing in front of her, about something as silly as a doll, of all things. Emily looks at me, as satisfied as ever, and I softly shake my head wondering if it was a good idea to give the doll to the little girl after all. Emily has a habit of causing trouble of sorts.

  *** Marie doesn’t have a lot of friends in her new hometown, so she mostly relies on me to play with. Although I am a bit old for games like tea parties or playing house, I do enjoy them, as they remind me of my own childhood, and how things have been once upon a time.

  When her parents got concerned of her lack of friends of her own age, and Melissa Abrams, the nextdoor neighbor, came to visit our house, she didn’t even want to play with her. She insisted that she already had a friend, namely me, but her parents wouldn’t hear it. Maybe they are right, and she does need a friend her own age. But despite Marie’s pleas, Melissa Abrams has appeared, and she is forced to play with her.

  Everytime Marie tries to tell Melissa about me, the girl looks around nervously, and gets very, very pale. “Is she here now?” she eventually asks.

  Marie laughs. “Of course not, silly! What, do you think she is hiding beneath the bed or something?” Unfortunately, this doesn’t make Melissa any less nervous, and she keeps glancing at her surroundings.

  Of course I’m not hiding beneath Marie’s bed. I am hiding behind the secret door from Marie’s room, leading to the attic. But I won’t go blow my hiding spot, and I want the young girls to have some time for their own. Although I wish Marie would find a more intelligent friend than this scared little chicken.

  “I’m going to the bathroom,” Marie announces, and gets up from the carpet.

  “No!” Melissa gasps, looking around her cautiously. “Don’t leave me alone.” Marie narrowes her eyes. “Why? I’m just going to the bathroom…”

  “But I’m scared!” Melissa reacts. Then she takes a few deep breaths, and seems to calm down. “Uhm, alright. But hurry, please.”

  Marie promises her that she will hurry up, and then she leaves for the bathroom. Without making a sound, I leave my hiding spot, open the secret passage door, and enter Marie’s room.

  Luckily, Melissa’s back is turned towards me, and although the girl shoots frantic glances through the room, she doesn’t notice me.

  I sit down on Marie’s bed, waiting for her to return. I think she at least will be happy to have some company other than a little whiny child.

  When she openes the door to her bedroom, her smile brightens. “Oh, there you are!” she exclaims, looking at me. “I was wondering where you were at!”

  “Who…” Melissa begins, but when she realizes who Marie is talking about, she turns a deadly pale. Her eyes grow the size of tennis balls.

  She runs out of the room, screaming. That’s the last we saw of scared little Melissa Abrams.

  4

  CHAPTER FOUR

  They began to redecorate the kitchen, and to be honest, I waam quite worried about that. William ought himself a handy-man, but in all fairness, he isn’t. His work is clumsy, done too fast, and only half finished. The first room they worked on, Marie’s room, ended up beautiful, but the finishing touches could have been better. I guessed even I could do a better job.

  When William and Isabelle are bickering once again, this time about the color of the kitchen cabinets, I find myself wondering if they always fought that much, or if their quarrels only began after moving to this mansion. It is visible for everyone who wants to see it, that Isabelle is fond of this house, the neighborhood, the old market place at Town’s Square, whereas William is more of a city-man, and prefers the luxury of a modern apartment above the charms of a Victorian mansion.

  Jonathan is standing next to me, as his parents argue about cabinet colors, and offers his own two cents, saying he prefers the blue over the green any day. He then sighs, because his electronical device – a playstation portable, as he calls it – starts messing up. The thing doesn’t work all that well, I have to say. Every now and then the screen goes all blurry out of the blue, and he has to walk to another room, and shake the thing, to fix it again. I don’t get those electronical devices, and I don’t want to either. I prefer Victorian doll houses, porcelain dolls and fairytale books. Jonathan walks away from me, and smiles relieved when his playstation portable starts working again.

  It seems like William and Isabelle had finally settled on the blue. Thank god, because the green looks hideous.

  *** The leaves are turning green, yellow and auburn again, as Marie and I walk through the garden. I love it when summer changes into autumn, and when the leaves fall of the trees.

  “When I was younger,” I tell Marie, as we sit down on the bench in the garden, “my mother used to take me out in the garden to gather leaves. We would then spend the entire day drying the leaves, and glueing them in a book. We called it our “study of plants”. I was homeschooled, you see, and my mother thought plants and leaves were of great value. When I grew older, she thought me how to distinguish mushrooms and herbs, so that if I ever got lost in the woods, I could survive.”

  “Wow,” Marie gasps, fascinated by my knowledge. “I would like to learn that as well. My mother does not teach me much.”

  “And your teachers at school? Do they not teach you anything?” I wonder aloud.

  “Hardly,” she replies. “Will you teach me?”

  “Sure,” I answer, smiling at her. “But now, why don’t you get up. We haven’t even seen half of the garden.” “My father says I cannot go past the great oak tree,” Marie says softly. “Do you have any idea why?”

  I raise my eyebrows. I do have a vague idea of why her father wouldn’t want her to wander off in the darker part of the garden.

  Maybe it is because of the secret garden – but no, I would have found out if he discovered that. Or maybe he is scared she would venture into the graveyard. Houses this old with gardens this big often have family graveyards far back, and this house is no different. Certainly, it isn’t good for children this young to be confronted with people long dead and corpses long buried. Or maybe he is afraid she would stumble into the pond.

  I like ponds, always have and always will. There is something fascinating about staring at the surface of it, gazing off into that deep blue, and wondering what could be at the bottom. When I was Marie’s age, I could stare at our pond for hours in a row, fantasizing about what great wonders and hideous monsters were hidden beneath. My mother was always both worried and strangely happy about my wild imagination skills, and my fascination for the unknown. She would then take me in her arms, and spin me around, a whirlwind of skirts, wind and pure joy.