“Everything all right, Ms. Blackwood?” James asks, quirking an eyebrow.
I blink away, realizing I must have been staring. “Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking…”
“Anything I can be of service with?”
I think on that question for a moment, then hop down. “Well, maybe, actually. You haven’t… Do you ever sense something odd in this house?”
His eyes meet mine with a surprising level of guardedness and I chew on my lower lip. “How do you mean?”
It occurs to me, he may have no idea about the Blackwood family abilities, let alone the haunted nature of this house.
My eyebrows knit together. “Do you ever feel like there’s something here? Like a presence?”
James shuts off the burner and turns on another one. He walks to the refrigerator and pulls out the eggs. “Every now and again, I do get the distinct impression we are not alone inside Blackwood Manor. But from what I understand, that is to be expected.”
“You mean Abigail?” I say, narrowing my gaze.
He nods curtly.
“Yeah, I don’t mean her, actually,” I say, scrunching my face.
James turns to me, his eyes clouded with concern. “Would this have anything to do with the mess in the study?”
My mouth pops open and I nod. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I should have told you—”
He waves a hand dismissively. “It’s quite all right.”
“I was going to clean it up this weekend. I’ve just had so much on my mind.”
“It is all taken care of,” he says turning back to the stove and cracking a number of eggs into the pan. “But to answer your question, yes, I have felt at times the energy of the manor take on a more…ominous vibe. I had hoped your father could explain it to me but we seem to be missing one another in person as of late. You know, when your father hired me a number of years ago, I was under the impression it would be him and I as the only living souls wandering these halls. It’s been ever so pleasant to have you here,” James says, reaching out and patting my leg.
“Thank you,” I say. “I just wish he’d be here more often, too.”
“Oh, I do agree with you on that,” he chuckles, adding in some cut up sausages into the egg mixture. “He’s always been very busy. Trying to occupy his time and keep his mind away from his worries.”
“He was lucky to have found you,” I say. “Where did you two meet?”
James looks up, his eyes distant for a moment. “Well, I’ve known your father for a very long time. In fact, your grandfather and I were childhood friends.”
“Really?” I say, surprised I hadn’t thought to learn more about James sooner.
“Oh, indeed,” he says, nodding. “Charles and I got into plenty of mischief. Granted, he more than I.”
I drop my gaze to my knees and grin.
“It’s always a bit strange to be the mundane human in the mix of very gifted individuals. But your grandfather never made me feel less-than. I suppose, this was passed down to your father,” he says shutting off the burner and readying the tortilla shells. “When my wife Beverly died, I was at a bit of a loss. Your father gave me purpose again. Even if it was only merging our loneliness so neither were truly alone. Besides, once you’re taken in by the mystery of Blackwood Manor, any chance to come back is a second chance at unraveling it.”
“I guess I can attest to that,” I say, nodding. I pause for a moment, thinking about his life and how it must have been for him, being friends with my grandpa, being around this world, but not having any special powers of your own. “Well, I need to get some homework done. Thank you for doing this and talking with me. We should do it more often.”
“No trouble at all. Have a lovely evening, Ms. Blackwood.”
I hop off the counter and walk to the door, but turn back and say, “Call me Autumn.”
James smiles in return. “Goodnight, Autumn.”
Smiling to myself, I walk out into the hallway. When I get into the main entry, I walk past the large staircase and down the hallway that leads to my bedroom.
If James has felt the energy of the manor shift, too, then it must be more of a problem than I thought. There’s a good chance when Dad gets home, we’ll have to perform a banishing or summoning to learn why it’s here and what it wants.
In the meantime, maybe I can get Abigail to communicate with me.
As I reach my bedroom door, the hallway is flooded with a strange chill. Spinning around, I search the space, but nothing is evident.
Once inside my bedroom, I pull up short. There, on my bed, is my backpack.
The memory of setting it by the staircase rushes back to me and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Whoever, or whatever, must have moved it.
“Abigail?” I call out, my voice quivering.
Without waiting for an answer, I run over to the small door leading to the resurrection chamber and throw it open. Racing down the stairs, I close my eyes and summon the torches to ignite.
“Abigail, are you here?” I demand, my heart pounding.
She doesn’t answer, but I can feel her presence all around me.
I’m suddenly consumed with a vision of something outside of myself—something not my own.
As if stepping into an augmented reality, I’m in this same space, but I’m no longer alone.
Along the outer edge of the resurrection chamber, a man—Warren, my great-great-grandfather—walks the circle in a counterclockwise fashion, saying something I can’t hear or make out. Yet, without a question, there’s a knowing inside of me. It’s almost like a cellular memory. He’s attempting a resurrection.
Peering around the space, I search for the source of his attempt, trying to understand why it’s him and not Abigail who is casting this
