The Curse Of Rydge House

                   CHAPTER 1

    The Wimple's Diner shone bright as the north star against the enclosing blackness of the darkest of nights. Breana Gale pushed open the glass door and stepped over the threshold into the old diner, welcomed by the warmth of the establishment. It seemed to be the only business still open at that late hour, which must have been why she was instructed to wait there by her new employer. She pulled her luggage closer to her, two suitcases and a small leather satchel, and looked around, taking in the foreign surroundings. She looked toward the nearby desk and saw an older man with graying wiry black hair and a mustache. She walked up to the desk, noticing the man was deeply engrossed in a book.
    "Excuse me," Breana said.
    The man looked up. He stood from the stool he was seated upon, smiled at her, and asked in a very cheerful and clear tone, "Is it just you, miss."
    She shrugged. "I don't know. I'm supposed to be meeting someone here. Has anyone been asking for Breana Gale?" she asked with an uneasy nerve.
    The old man held an expression of of confusion. "No. I don't think so," he replied.
    "Do you mind if I wait?" she asked.
    "No, not at all. I'll get you a table," he told her as he gestured her onward in the main seating area.
    "Thank you," she said.
    The elderly gentleman lead her to a side booth about midway between the front of the establishment and the back.
    "We will be open for another few hours," the man announced. Breana nodded and took her seat, setting her cases upon the floor in close proximity. He handed her a menu.
    "I presume you are Mr. Wimple?" she inquired in a polite manner.
    The man let out a raspy chuckle. "Yes and no, miss." He crossed his arms, before continuing. "You see, my grandfather actually built this place as a, eh, drugstore, and got it into his head to open a little diner, combining the two. When he got about like me, my father took over until I came about and was old enough, I took over."
    "How quaint," she said, offering a kind smile.
    "Yep, it is one of the oldest small businesses still running in town."
    The restaurant was like an old fashioned coffee shop, from about the 60s or 70s. Breana noticed a girl wiping off the long front counter. Breana took a double take and recognized her from a year ago; the girl had been in Chicago the previous summer. She saw the girl in a pawn shop; she was trying to buy a painting that wasn’t for sale as it turned out; the painting was meant for her father. The girl and Breana had spoken for a while before she departed. At the time the girl had worn her blonde hair short and had been dressed in ordinary street clothes, but in the present, in the restaurant, she was dressed in a retro-style uniform and her hair was about shoulder length and curly. 
    "I'll send the waitress over," Mr. Wimple said. "Booth!"
    The girl looked up and left her rag behind. As she made her way to Breana, she mechanically retrieved a pen and pad from her apron pocket.
    Breana watched her mischievously, wondering if the waitress would remember her. “Bought any paintings lately?” Beana asked.
    The girl looked at her, puzzled, and continued to stared at her for a bit before it hit. 
    "Oh!" She laughed. "No, not lately. I remember you." She nodded her head a little. "Chicago, the pawn shop, last year." 
    "Yeah, Sheila isn’t it?" Breana asked, uncertain.
    The waitress glanced down at her blouse, then back at Breana. "Yes, Sheila East. You have a good memory. And I’m not even wearing my name tag." 
    Breana let out a giggle, "Well I remembered your face and voice. You've changed your hair." 
    "Yeah, I got tired of it being that short. I almost went brunette." 
    Breana nodded. 
    "Can I get you a cup of coffee?" Sheila asked. 
    "Yes, please," Breana said, eagerly.
    Sheila walked behind the counter, selected a cup and saucer, removed the brown-stained glass pot from the coffee maker and began pouring it out. Breana took off the satchel and slid her purse from her shoulder,  allowing them to rest safely upon the seat cushion on both sides of her. The young woman, in her mid-twenties, with long, dark blonde hair, had come to the secluded little town of Ryderspeak to become the new secretary  to a prominent widow, one Sylvia Richards of Rydge House in answer to an advertisement.
    As she waited on her coffee, thiughts about her long journey from Chicago to the small town wandered around  in her head. The taxi ride from her apartment to the bus station, the anxiety that seemed to creep upon her like s9me malicious stalker, waiting to strike, the crowds of strangers coming and going on the bus, the stops and starts making the wait long and drawn out. She had hoped that the bus would have been the right move, being cheaper than flying out of Chicago and then have to request a car to take her the rest if the way, but it had seemed to be never ending, allowing her to think a fear too much. The only upside, besides the cost that she could conceive was that the bus presented her with a variety of scenery.
    Sheila returned with the coffee and placed it on the table before Breana, who took a sip of the hot liquid, allowing its bitter taste to center her in the present of her new chapter in life. She thanked Sheila and went about doctoring it up the way she liked with the available packets of cream and sugar.
    "So what brings you to this gloomy old town?" Sheila asked. 
    "I’m taking a job offer," Breana answered moving her hair out of the way while taking her jacket off. 
    "Where?" Sheila asked. 
    "A place called Rydge House," Breana answered. Sheila started. 
    "You’re going to work for Mrs. Richards," Sheila checked.  
    Breana was shocked at the waitress’ reaction. "Yes," she answered. 
    "I see. But why?" 
    "Well why shouldn’t I," Breana asked curiously, pushing her glasses back into place. 
    Sheila shrugged, "No reason, I guess. I mean, I don't have anything against Mrs. Richards." 
    Breana gazed deep into her cup, uncomfortably studying the noir liquid. A shuffle from a customer startled her. Both she and Sheila glanced the way of a middle-aged man, who stopped with his ticket at the register, paying Mr. Wimple before departing. 
    "Night, Mr. Jonathan," Sheila called, the man merely raised a hand without turning to face in the women's direction and was gone.
    "Now," Sheila said, returning her attention to Breana. "I don’t see you as a maid, they have a housekeeper. You couldn’t be a groundskeeper, a caretaker, or a handy woman; they have two men that do that work. What are you going to be?"
    "I’m going to be her new secretary, or assistant, I suppose you'd say," Breana told the waitress.  
    Sheila nodded. Breana looked over at the entrance of the restaurant. She could see most of the lobby, she was hoping that the person, or persons, she was waiting on would be standing there or walking in looking for her, but there was no one.
    "Looking for someone?" Sheila asked. 
    Breana turned to look at her new friend. "Yes," she said.
    "Who?" Sheila asked with a curious smile. 
    "I don't know," Breana admitted. 
    Sheila looked at her very hard.        "Someone from the house," she finished. 
    "Oh, they're keeping you in suspense," Sheila declared. Breana shrugged. 
    "Crazy," the waitress said. Breana sipped her coffee some more. 
    "What?" she asked. 
    "Them," Sheila replied. 
    "Who?"
    "That family," Sheila answered. 
    Breana looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Why do you say that?" 
    "Well because they kind of are," Sheila replied. 
    "They can't be all that bad."
    "Well…," Sheila said with a bit of a smile. 
    "Do you know them well?" Beana asked.
    "Yeah, I've been there a few times," Sheila said. 
    "But you don’t like them," Breana assumed. 
    "No, it's not that. And I'm not saying they're mentally insane, they're just, some say they're a little weird," Sheila told her. 
    “Why is that?” Breana asked. 
    “Maybe because they mainly keep to themselves. Maybe it's because they are rich and can afford to be that way," Sheila explained. 
    "Maybe they're just lonely," Breana said. 
    Sheila shrugged. "Maybe. Is there anything I can get you, aside from that coffee?"
    Breana thought a moment. She didn't want to keep her ride waiting, while waiting for food or while she consumed whatever she would order; though the notion of food was appealing to her. "I better not. My ride may show up at any time."
    Sheila shrugged and smiled. "If you like. How about warm a cookie or brownie?"
    Breana looked at the watch on the underside of her wrist, it read nine twenty-three. She would have called if she had a cell phone, but she had not yet conformed to the status quo in that way, but figured that she would after she had established herself; her father often commented that people were becoming too dependent on "that technology" and she had started to see it herself. 
    "Sure; a cookie, please," she said.
    "You got it," Sheila said without even bothering to write down her simple order. The waitress wandered off behind the large counter, once again, and went about her work.
    Breana picked up the satchel next to her, which was old and nearly worn out from years of what she assumed to be good use. She had borrowed the satchel from her roommate, Stefanie, who inherited it from her grandfather, a well-traveled businessman; the plan was to send it back to her friend after she had settled in and could afford something of her own. Opening the bag she pulled out a medium sized hardcover book with blank pages in it. She opened it to the first page, which read "RECORDS" at the top, and took a pen from her purse and wrote the date: March 7, 2007. She looked up at the waitress, who was busy at her task of preparing her dish, then at the page and began to write. She pondered her new life in the small town of Ryderspeak, hoping to find new opportunities and make a career for herself.  She hoped she'd make a good impression when she arrived, that she'd please her new employer, and fulfill the promises she made to her friends back home. For her, it was an adventure and her determination to prove herself hinged on its success. She couldn't fail.
    When Sheila returned, she presented Breana with a delightful treat upon a plate as pure as fresh snow. The dish was adorned with rich chocolate drizzle and a dollop of whipped cream.
    "Thank you," Breana said.
    "Sure thing. Let me know if I can get you anything else," Sheila said and wandered off to attend to other customers.
    Breana put the journal and pen back in their original places and turned her attention fully onthe dish before her. The cookie was delicious and wasn't overly sweet, of which Veronica approved. As time moved onward, she found herself becoming more and more uneasy as her ride had not yet arrived. She wasn't becoming impatient, but she had started to think that her new employer had forgotten her. If it came to it, she had decided, she would take a cab upto the house and present herself.
    More of the customers had filtered out, and Sheila wandered past once again, baring the stained coffee pot. "So, another cup?"
    Breana glanced down at her empty cup and saucer. "Oh, why not."
    "Anything else?" Sheila asked. 
    "Can you tell me if I've been forgotten?" She joked.
    "Something must have come up. I figured that Mrs. Richard's brother would have come."
    "Now who is her brother?" Breana asked. 
    "Joseph Peters," Sheila answered. 
    “Oh, alright," Breana said with understanding. "Does anyone else live there?"
    "He has a daughter, named Rebecca. And a cousin that lives there too, Quentin Peters; he has a sister, I think, but she doesn't live around here," Sheila informed Breana.
    Breana a good portion of her coffee, which wasn't overly hot, and looked toward the lobby; she saw a woman in black dress pants and a black button-down shirt, walking into the restaurant. The woman was in her late thirties and had very short jet black hair. The newcomer walked directly up to Sheila and Breana.
    "Sheila, good evening," the woman greeted, then glanced about, "Where is Mr. Wimple, tonight?"
    "He went back to the office. Did you want to see him about something?" Sheila asked the woman.
    "No, it just seems strange without him at his usual spot,” the woman said.
    "Slow, tonight," Sheila said. She turned her gaze upon Breana. 
    "Oh, Ms. Valentine, this is…," Sheila said breaking the silence. Her lips quivered as she struggled to remember.
    Breana came to Sheila’s rescue. "Breana Gale." 
    "Breana, this is Ms. Tabby Valentine," Sheila introduced them, "Breana is waiting for someone from Rydge House; Mrs. Richards' secretary."    
    Ms. Valentine shook Breana's hand. "It’s very nice to meet you. I'm the town librarian,"the new woman said with interest. 
    Breana thought the woman was quite beautiful; she was surprised by the way she dressed, so formal and yet not what she would think a librarian would wear.
    "Ms. Valentine is a friend of Mrs. Richard's," Sheila said. 
    "Oh," Breana said with a smile. 
    "Yes I met Mrs. Richard's a little over a year ago," Ms. Valentine told Breana.
    "Do you go to the house often?"
    "Occasionally," Ms. Valentine replied in a nonchalant way. Breana nodded with confusion. "You should get on well, there."
    "I hope so," Breana asked.
    Sheila smile coyly, "You're like a confidant or something, aren't you?"
    "She confides in me, I'm a friend and an advisor," the librarian said, her eyes fixed upon Sheila as if she were offended. 
    "I see," Breana said. She glanced at her watch, again, it said eight o'clock. Ms. Valentine noticed. 
    "How long have you been waiting?" she inquired. 
    "About forty minutes," Breana answered. 
    "And no one’s come?" Ms. Valentine asked. 
    "No, no one’s come, not a soul,” Breana answered. Concern drifted into the other woman's face.    
    "What have you been doing?" Ms. Valentine asked. 
    "Oh, Sheila’s been telling me a little about the family."
    "Sheila, could you get me a cup of coffee," Ms. Valentine asked quickly. 
    Sheila wrinkled her nose. "Sure." She glanced at Breana before she went to fix the cup of coffee, her lip giving a little twitch before leaving. 
    "So, Ms. Valentine, what is Rydge House like?"
    "It’s an interesting place," the librarian said, then sat down across from Breana and leaned in close. "Miss Gale, what has Sheila been telling you?"
    "Nothing really, just who lives at the house and that she finds the family a little strange," Breana said. 
    "If she has been telling you any sinister things about them don’t believe them," Ms. Valentine said in the same low tone. 
    "Why? Such as?"
    "Because they aren’t true, the family is very nice."
    Sheila returned with the cup of coffee. 
    "Thank you," Ms. Valentine said taking it and drinking a sip.
    The door to the kitchen and the back portion of the restaurant banged open and Mr. Wimple came strolling behind the counter. Ms. Valentine looked, "Good evening, Mr. Wimple."
    The elderly man waved back, his mouth full of nearly too perfect teeth.
    "How are you enjoying the book?"
    Mr. Wimple waved the book he was reading in his hand and continued on back to the desk. 
    Ms. Valentine smiled approvingly. "He's such a nice gentleman. As I was saying, you'll like the family, I think."
    "Oh, yes," Breana nodded.
    "Hhmm," Sheila chimed in, her eyes simmering on the woman across from Breana.
   Breana looked toward the restaurant entrance and saw a very attractive young man, about in his early thirties or late twenties walked into the building. He had light brown hair, and wore a gray suit, he walked up to the desk and asked Mr. Wimple, "Excuse me, is there a girl about twenty waiting?" 
    "Yes, been waiting a while," Mr. Wimple replied. The young man uneasily cleared his throat.
    "Mr. Peters," the librarian called, signaling the man over. He walked casually over to the three women. 
    "Hello, Ms. Valentine," the man said. 
    "Hello Quentin," Ms. Valentine greeted. 
    "Hello Sheila."
    "Mr. Peters," Sheila said, "Looks like your ride is here Breana." 
    Quentin Peters upon Veronica, fixed. "You’re Miss Gale?" Quentin asked surprised. 
    "Yes, but call me Breana, please," she stood up and smiled. Quentin gazed unwavering.
    "You’re even more beautiful than your name," Quentin said, seeming to be stopped in his tracks, Ms. Valentine took notice. 
    "I’m Quentin Peters, I’ve come to take you to Rydge House," the attractive man said. "I'm sorry  I kept you, I completely lost track of the time."
    Brean was surprised; she thought he would be much older than he was. 
    "That's quite alright."
    "Are you ready?" Quentin asked. 
    "Yes, just a moment," Breana said. She pulled on her jacket, reached into her pocket, pulled out some money and handed it to Sheila. "Will this cover it?"
    "No thank you, the coffees and treat are on me," Sheila said quickly. 
    "Are you sure?" Breana asked. 
    "I insist. Keep your money," Sheila commanded. Breana stuck the money back into her pocket. Quentin picked up one of her suitcases while Breana picked up the other and her satchel, then turned to Ms. Valentine. 
    "I guess I shall see you up at the house sometime," Ms. Valentine said. 
    "I hope so, Ms. Valentine. Bye," Breana said, then she turned to waved to Sheila. Breana and Quentin started to walk away. 
    "See ya," Sheila called. Quentin and Breana walked out to the car with the two suitcases and her satchel. Lingering stares followed them as they left the restaurant.