Fiction Friday: [Galloway House Pt. 6]

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[Welcome to Part 6 of Galloway House. If you have missed any of the previous installments you can find them here: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5. And as always...thanks for reading!]

While Joseph Strunk planted kisses on the foreheads of his family, Kate Winstead lit the last of the candles she had painstakingly placed around the massive sitting room. Rose-hued wood and delicate, yet lush fabrics filled the room. The sight of a hundred flickering open flames amongst it all was both terrifying and beautiful.

The ancient grandfather clock ticked in the corner and seemed to boom louder with each passing second. Decades older than Kate, it not only served as the oldest heirloom in the home, it was also the keeper of the family’s history. She delicately ran her fingers over its intricate carvings, trailing over the detailed faces of Townsley’s past residents. Some expressions carved stoic and focused, others fashioned with eyes and mouths gaped in horror. Suns and moons, water and fire. To an untrained eye the images would appear random, haphazardly placed. But for Kate, each image came together as a reminder of why she was here and what she had to do.

She picked up a worn, centuries-old leather diary off of an ottoman draped and fitted in silk bouclé. Kate had referenced the book when setting the candles and she once again pored over the pages of Edith Galloway Masterson’s diary to check her work. The consequence of even one candle out of place was a price too high to imagine. One that the entire world would have to pay.

Despite the lump in her throat and the irregular pounding in her chest, Kate was satisfied that she had done all she could to prepare for the evening. Now the time had come for her to wait on the final piece to arrive. A piece never to be touched by Galloway hands.

Wandering over to the window, Kate pulled back the lacy curtain. She peered out into the darkness and although it was a bit early, worry set in and crawled uneasily up her spine. The harder she tried to push the questions out of her mind, the stronger they fought for the spotlight. What if the Strunk offspring refused to believe in the old traditions? Or worse, what if the Strunk lineage died out altogether and there was no one left to help complete the task? What if Kate had traveled all of this way only to fail her family? To fail the world?

Then she saw it. The tiniest hint of orange glowing in the distance. She watched as it bobbed its way toward where the driveway met Main Street and sighed with relief as it grew larger and brighter, ascending the hill toward Galloway House.

[Read Part 7 of Galloway House here.]

Fiction Friday: [The Patience of Spring]

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Charles wrapped his crooked, knobby fingers around the top of his cane and lamented over the effort of each joint. Counting the spots on the back of his hand, he wondered where all the time had gone. With an ornery sigh and great effort, he managed to make it from the bed over to the window, dropping into his favorite, overstuffed chair.

“Well, look at you. Already up and at’em, I see.” This particular nurse was much too chipper for his taste. “You’re looking a bit grumpy today. Maybe we’ll go for a walk down in the garden later, huh?”

He grunted in response, hoping to knock a little shine off her cheery disposition. Sometimes a man just wanted to be in a funk. And the way Charles saw it, he’d put in enough years on this earth to do so when he pleased.

“It’s time for your morning pills,” she said with no sign of being even slightly bothered by his attitude.

It only added to the cloud of irritation that bloomed in his chest. It was all made worse when he took note of her uniform: t-shirt and jeans. Her unprofessionalism was infuriating and he just wanted her to leave him be.

He expelled an exaggerated huff then reached for the pills. When he noticed how shaky his hand was, he quickly drew it back. Turning away from nurse what’s-her-name and staring out the window, Charles allowed his embarrassment to morph into anger.

“Just leave them on the table,” he said dismissively. “And get out. I’m a grown man. I know how to take my own damn pills.”

 Stillness settled around the room. Charles could hear the lazy ticking of the grandfather clock down the hall. The longer the nurse stood frozen behind him, the more he realized how unfair he had been. But instead of apologizing, he pressed his lips firmly together and continued to stare out at the late-arriving colors sprouting in the garden. It had been a long, tough winter.

The nurse finally woke from her catatonic state and moved closer to Charles, setting a glass of water and pills on the table next to him. When she placed her hand on his shoulder, he didn’t yell. He was surprised by how comforted he was by the gesture. When she gently planted a kiss on the top of his head, he didn’t flinch. He closed his eyes and drank in the familiarity

“I’ll come back by later to see if you want to go for that walk,” she said, her joyful tone a bit chipped.  

Even with his back to her, he could still feel that she was there, hovering near the door.

“I love you, dad.” He heard her say.

But by the time he turned around, she was already gone.  

Fiction Friday: [Into A Field of Sunlight And Calm]

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I was four years old when I was taken from my mother. It was surprising how vividly I remembered the day, despite trying to forget it…and every day since. I remember the way my ankle bones bounced off each other, my legs wrapped around my mom’s waist. The strong yet tender way her arms wrapped around mine. The blur of green that passed under her bare feet as she ran across the field at the back of the Big House. How beautiful and celebratory the flashing red lights edging the house from the other side looked.

There were at least a dozen of us. Other moms. Other kids. Except for John, Jr. I remember thinking how strange it was that he wasn’t with us. Aside from Father, he was the only other boy in the house.

People appeared on either side of our home. Dressed in black, they looked like ants as they entered the field. Freeze, they shouted over and over as they ran toward us. Some of the kids stumbled. Some of the moms did as they were told. But my mom kept running, telling me it would all be okay, her voice raspy and spent. And I believed her.

Now, tugging at the skirt of the dress my husband told me to wear, it hit me how wrong my mom had been. And how deeply rooted those first lessons of what it meant to be a woman were. Despite being placed in foster care and adopted out, I had somehow still become her. Even down to falling for and marrying a man named John. Shame sliced me through the gut. I had never once tried to stop the fall as I tumbled into a cult of one.

Memories whisked me away from the loud, crowded bar where I was surrounded by John’s friends. Taken back to that day I felt the warm air against my cheeks. The smell of the sun meeting the blades of grass in the field. The beating of my mom’s heart against my chest.

She ran because she never knew she was a prisoner. At least not until it was too late. But I knew. For her, for me. I knew.

John dug his fingers into the fat of my arm, snatching me close to ask through clenched teeth why I was smiling. But I was enveloped in a calm I’d never known as the field came back into view. It beckoned me toward freedom. It filled with a sunny glow and informed me that I had a choice. I had a chance.      

Fiction Friday: [The Last Girl on Earth]

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When I first heard the voices, I thought I was dead. It had to be the chatter of angels. Surely, I was ascending to the next plane of existence. Or at least I hoped I was ascending.

The night before I spotted lush green trees rising in the distance above the hard angles of brick and concrete that had dominated my view since entering New York City. Although I had many miles to go before reaching it, I wasn’t going to rest until I had. Stepping into Central Park, I almost felt reinvigorated. I stumbled down overgrown paths until I reached a huge patch of tall grass. I fell to my knees and cried as my hands brushed against the blades. As with every emotion I’d had in the last fourteen months, I had no idea why. Exhausted from the tears, I settled in atop my worn blue tarp, staring at the stars and imagining my family next to me until I fell asleep.

After a winter of ice clinging to naked branches and cartoon-like clouds puffing through my clenched teeth and dry lips, I had decided to head south. It took me almost seven months to get here from Maine. And it took almost as long to scare up the courage to finally leave home. To see if anyone else still existed. There were no gravestones to visit to say goodbye to my family. Even if there were, those graves would be empty. Everyone had just disappeared.

Packing up in the morning, I looked into the vast space and tried to imagine it full of people. Picnicking, tossing Frisbees, and taking for granted that they weren’t alone. I reached my crying quota last night so it was time to move on. Heading out, I found a tattered green and white sign that read: The Great Lawn. I laughed at the fact that I had slept in all of New York City’s backyard. The sign was also covered in simple lines meant to serve as a map. Although faded, I could make out a Turtle Pond and a theater, but my eyes hung on the clearest of all: Belvedere Castle. Something stirred inside me and I knew that I had to see it. A castle in the middle of Manhattan? What choice did I have? It was going to take at least a year before I made it to Florida, a little sightseeing would hardly make a dent.

When I finally spied the grey brown turret rising above the tree top, my heart pounded as if it knew something I didn’t. I took a moment, staring at the tattered American flag hanging limply at its peak and that was when I heard the voices. Light and carefree, even giggling. I edged closer, passing a half empty pond with no sign of turtles. Clearing the trees enough to see the castle, I paused when I looked at the balcony just below the turret. There were four kids, around sixteen or so. My age. Two sat precariously along the stone railing. One of them, a girl, was the first to see me. But there wasn’t fear in her eyes. Not even surprise.

“We got another one,” she called out to her friends.

After so long without human contact, four sets of eyes on me felt like millions.

“I know what you’re thinking,” another kid, a boy, said. “but you’re not hallucinating. And you’re not dead. Trust me. We’ve all been through it. Come on up.”

I wasn’t sure if it was because I had gone so long believing I was the last person on earth, but gazing up into their empathetic faces, I felt like I knew them. I took the stairs two at a time, my heart now pounding in unison with my thoughts.

I wasn’t alone.

Fiction Friday: Galloway House Pt. 5

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[Welcome to Part 5 of Galloway House. If you have missed any of the previous installments you can find them here: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4. And as always...thanks for reading!]


A deep ebony silk crept its way through the thick, gray clouds. It slipped in like evening turning to night, but it was too early for stars to twinkle in the sky. The occasional lightning strike highlighted the waves and curves of stubborn clouds and with canceled plans and early dinners, it also highlighted the streets rendered empty below.

With each curious whisper slipped from assuming lips, the darkness dug its way deeper through the village. Then it wove its way into every resident of Townsley. The weight of it bore down on them thick and sluggish until, all at once, everyone in the village slipped into a cavernous sleep.

All but two.

For Kate Winstead and Joseph Strunk it was time to get to work.

Fiction Friday: Galloway House Pt. 4

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[Welcome to Part 4 of Galloway House. If you have missed any of the previous installments you can find them here: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3. And as always...thanks for reading!]

 

As Joseph Strunk sat down for a meal with his family, he imagined it was considerably more subdued than other dinner tables around Townsley. The arrival of the stranger would no doubt dominate every conversation. Theories would be discussed. Assumptions would be made. And thanks to the lack of facts and evidence, it was safe to assume that fear would grow and spread before night’s end.

Joseph chewed thoughtfully on leftover chicken and remembered the looks of wonder and awe on the other villager’s faces as the storm had rolled in. The hissing sounds of their whispered concerns whipping by on the growing winds. And then, how they had all fallen silent—momentarily stunned he supposed—as their widened eyes drew like magnets to the unfamiliar car as it rolled into town. He had watched as the shock and confusion morphed its way into curiosity.

“Who is that?” Ben Waller had said.

And although he was the only one within earshot of the question, Joseph hadn’t dared to assume it was directed toward him. Ben was Townsley’s only lawyer. In a town where everything had its place, there was certainly no slot that would involve a conversation between a lawyer and a garbage man. Joseph wandered off before the conversation continued, but he was sure it was filled with misinformation and speculation.

What he really knew was that he had just witnessed the seeds of fear being planted. A fear that would not bloom in his household. Neither Joseph nor his wife, Clara, were afraid and their children were much too young to care about the village’s goings on.

No matter how historic.

Watching his children’s chubby cheeks bob and squish as they ate their dinner, he considered their future. The Strunk family had lived in Townsley for almost as long as the village existed, but have never at any point been affluent members of the community. At least not under the definition of what seemed to matter these days.  Theirs was a wealth whose currency was knowledge. Secrets passed down from generation to generation. Ones that involved the truth behind why Galloway house stood abandoned and shrouded in mystery for so long. And more importantly, what it meant now that an heir to the Galloway legacy had returned. 

[Read Part 5 here]

Fiction Friday: [As DIsquietude Flows Through Delta Waves]

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“Close your eyes,” whispered the moon.
The words slid slick down its beam of white and I surrendered.
Falling deeper and deeper into the abyss, I grew
feather-light, airborne at the slightest sigh of a breeze.
The world fell quieter and quieter around me until
the silence thickened, hanging like a noose around my neck.
Thoughts gathered and swelled and I swayed
from a branch of worry and anxiety and events of the day.
Molecules solidified too quickly and
I longed to be weightless once again.
I longed to be light.
I longed for the light.
“Open your eyes,” whispered the sun. 
The words slid soothingly down its beam of yellow
and I surrendered.

Fiction Friday: [Galloway House Pt. 3]

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[If you need to catch up on previous installments of Galloway House, you can click here to read Part One or here to read Part Two]

Kate Winstead’s shoulders rubbed against the intricately carved wooden door as she tried to steady her breathing. It wasn’t just the ominous weather or the flash of lightning that had struck too closely as she exited the car that ignited the booming in her chest. She couldn’t quite shake the creepy stares of the locals as she drove into town. The way they stood almost catatonic, every eye piercing through the comfort and security of her tinted windows, sent an uneasiness creeping over her as wholly as the approaching clouds darkened the sky.

As she listened to the rain pattering against the roof outside, and the house sighing and groaning like a bored, petulant child inside, Kate regretted having to make the trip alone. Her husband had offered to accompany her, but she convinced him it would be best not to use up any more sick days. The truth was that he wasn’t a Galloway. Allowing him to come would only open the door to questions she couldn’t answer.

 A mechanical buzzing drew her attention and she followed it to one of the many automatic light timers spread throughout the house. With each passing second, the cloud cover dipped the sky into deeper shades of gray. The house would be cloaked in darkness before the timers had a chance to do their job. Clicking on the lights, Kate took in the sheet-covered furnishings and was surprised at how much she remembered even though she hadn’t been within Townsley’s borders since she was five.  

She walked over to the rocking chair in the sitting room and pulled the sheet, sending sparkles of dust into the air. Her eyes drifted across the ivy leaves carved into its curved back and traveling down along the arms. A burgundy pillow with an elaborately crossstitched “G” was still perched on the seat. Kate’s mind flooded with memories of sitting on her grandmother’s lap, listening to tales about their family. A memory that would make most nostalgic made the hairs on the back of her neck bristle.

Kate questioned again whether she should have come. Whether any of this was even necessary. What if she was acting on the whim of a family tradition born from unwell minds? On tales passed down and told so often they morphed into an undisputable truth? With every mile traveled to Townsley, the more she had believed that to be the case. But what if she was wrong? The consequences were too great to find out, so it wasn’t a chance she could take. She hadn't wanted the responsibility, but Kate was the last living Galloway and she had a job to do.

READ PART 4 HERE.