Where There is Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

Chapter 19: Old Bones

Bare feet covered the polished wood, a path walked a thousand times in a lifetime living in the old creaky house. Creaky, not from disrepair but merely from age. Sure, there were webs squirreled in the corners. Dust on the furniture and even a stray cat hair or ten, as several had occupied the manor in past decades. Upkeep wasn't a priority and without the inheritance the place would have gone to the bank long ago; property taxes being what they were. But then, wealth was also not a priority. It was convenient. And, without it, certain... wants... would have been far more complicated to satisfy.

No. Want wasn't the right word. Need was closer.

Need. Rare occasion had provision been made; the ache softened and the screams quieted to a hum. It was the voices.

Thirty eight years ago. The lower lip had been salvaged, though a scar still remained. And the taste. It lingered just back of the throat. And the need...

Square fingers pushed at the door; second from the end next to the staircase. Musty bedroom with its collection of toys where they'd last been dropped. Stuffed bunnies and dolls missing limbs. A scorch mark next to the bed that had been hidden by the rug. Parents never knew. Never cared.

Another door; a closet that still held small clothes. A blue dresser at the back. Tall, like a wardrobe. Just like that C.S. Lewis story with the lion and the witch and that funny little deer man. This one was different though. There were a few clothes inside, yes. “Sunday best” garments though they'd only gone to church three times. Twice for funerals of old and dusty family they barely knew and once for the wedding of some cousin or other.

The garments were pushed aside; one silky top hanging by the sleeve like a dead bat. The box was there. Hunched down in the shadows of velvet and heavy wool. Used to be mother's hat box – covered in pink linen and held together with wide cream ribbons. It rocked a little when lifted; the contents ill fitting the container. There was a stain all down one side – yellowish brown.

Carried to the bed and nestled down among the collection of bears. Round cover lifted off and a scent rising with its release. Stagnant but earthy. Old. Very, very old. A curl of blonde hair caught on the edge of the box.

Slowly, a finger reached out to stroke it.

~-~-~

Juliet had read the article that morning before going to work. Carlton, in spite of the unsheathed hatred he usually expressed regarding the Succubus, had been mostly non-ranty regarding it. Since the death of Kulish nearly three weeks ago, interest in the “Monster of Santa Barbara” had plummeted. Most of the major news sources had dropped the story completely. Only the local papers, specifically the rag that employed Sheffy, had bothered to pursue anything beyond straight reporting. But then, that had always been her style. She dug. And her latest expose' was no different.

This time around, along with her usual insinuations that Shawn had developed a twisted relationship with his captor, she was now suggesting that Shawn may have had prior knowledge of Kulish's activities yet failed to alert the police before his own kidnapping. But even that didn't come close to being the worst of it. In fact, that was just the introduction. In the text that followed, Sheffy gave a play by play of her interview with the parents of the last victim, Seth Branders. Those poor people probably had no idea they were little more than a selling point for this drawn out saga. Sheffy could fabricate the concerned and passionate investigative reporter when it suited her mood or her story. No wonder she'd managed to weasel herself into Shawn's room at the hospital. Juliet had reread that last article far more than was healthy. Had stared at the washed out black and white photo of Shawn while wishing anyone but Sheffy had been there for him in that moment of naked pain.