The Relic

By Holly Harbin

In the ancient hills of Appalachia, a young woman's obsession with a family relic entangles her in the mysterious history of a tainted bloodline. When her investigation forces her to acknowledge the horrors of the past, she must do whatever it takes to protect those she loves from an enduring malevolence that imperils the future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543932775

Book preview

1

1887

I would smile, if I could, wrapped in my memories. Boredom is my most constant and unwanted companion, and I find the most effective way to avoid its company is through reflection. And so, I slide into satisfying recollection as the bitter scent of singed fabric engulfs me.

Nothing burns so readily as a textile mill; not only due to aged boards and tightly stocked merchandise, but the air itself, thick with countless shimmering, combustible particles which hang suspended in the dank space.

In the presumptuous manner which men attempt to control and measure time, it was perhaps thirty years past.

Somewhere between late night and early morning, when the thundering machinery had fallen silent and all the decent people were respectably abed, a shadow slipped through the back door of the mill’s lowest level.

A rushing creek bowed around the imposing brick structure; its upper edifice pock-marked by dozens of small windows, all darkened but for one.

Three stories up, Thomas Ross sat in his dusty office, bent over his desk and accounting books; a hurricane lamp casting the only light in the lonely room.

He sighed heavily and leaned back, the wooden chair squeaking in protest. It was important that he make the necessary changes before his accountant performed the morning tally in-- he glanced at the watch attached to his waistcoat-- six hours, Thomas reminded himself, chidingly.

It was a delicate balance: attempting to effect the slightest changes for the greatest benefit, and Thomas was exhausted form the mathematical gymnastics. That, and managing the locals. What a time he’d had with the rabble! They were forever fighting and fornicating; the women perpetually taking leave to produce more colicky offspring.

Thomas’s uncle-- his father’s brother, and the only parental figure he cared to remember-- had set him up as an overseer in Weisman’s textile mill only a decade ago. In that time he’d risen, by every means available, to owner, eventually buying old Weisman out in his decrepitude.

Provincial Lincolnton, North Carolina was not his hometown and he cared little for it, so he’d set up a fine townhouse to the south in metropolitan Charlotte: a mahogany paneled, silk-trimmed, stained glass-accented haven.

He’d acquired the first brougham in town: a smart, nimble little carriage capable of negotiating the crowded streets, while affording the occupants the luxury of soft leather seats and glazed windows to the front and sides. For his young son Robert, he had already secured the future services of one of the most sought-after private teachers in the state. Meanwhile, his wife, always at the forefront of elegant fashion, had just that morning been fitted for a hooped cage crinoline, whatever that was. But Irene assured him it was the newest trend in Europe and she’d be the envy of her peers.

These were the achievements that kept him closeted in his musty, deserted office so late into the night. Each one putting a little more distance between Thomas and the abrasive, hollow memories of his youth.

A small clamor somewhere downstairs stirred Thomas from his reverie. He waited but heard nothing more, dismissing the sound for a rat.

He’d warned and threatened the workers about discarded food remnants. Apparently another haranguing was in order. Thomas bent himself to his task again, noting payment to an employee who no longer existed.

That had been a debacle. Thomas grimaced at the memory. The accident should have been laid ar the feet of the injured boy, who ought to have paid better attention to where he placed his hands. Unfortunately, only a few months before that, a similar incident had spurred the workers to begin demanding safety precautions of the foreman.

The expense of such an unnecessary undertaking was ludicrous, and Thomas had plainly said so. So when, not long after, the boy was relieved of his mangled limb, the workers’ outcry was untamable.

Thomas was eventually forced to fire the ringleaders of the growing rebellion, and threaten the rest with a similar fate. Only after such measures did an uneasy peace resume.

The sudden slamming of the erstwhile cracked office door jarred Thomas from his figures and he stood in surprise and accustomed anger.

What the hell? he demanded, though his fury faltered slightly at the sound of metal being dragged across the exterior doorknob.

He strode to the door, twisting and jerking the handle to no avail; something held it firmly closed from the other side.

Who the devil is out there? Unbar the door immediately! he summoned his best spine-shriveling bluster.

There was no answer but the sound of liquid spilling onto old boards. Something-- oil?-- began to seep under the immobile wooden door.

Breath quickening with grizzly understanding, Thomas began kicking the door repeatedly.

Listen here, he panted, abandoning his assault and leaning to speak into the doorjamb, I can exit this room by several other points, so what you are contemplating is pointless. Now, whoever you are, unbar the door and give yourself up. You’ve not yet done anything irreparable, and I promise leniency.

From the other side of the door the rasp of a dragged match was followed by the hiss of a flame’s first breath. He died two days ago, a muffled voice finally replied. It held the sharp twang of a mill town-dweller; most of whom were recent immigrants, lured down from the western hills by the song of cold, industrial opportunity.

Infection set in, after they took his arm the unseen voice constricted with emotion and paused, as if to regain composure. I only wish I could make this last longer, the sentiment was a sigh, tinged with disappointment.

Inferno burst to life outside the office, its reflection illuminating the oil with an orangey glow before licking its way across the surface of the liquid and beneath the door. Thomas stumbled backward, a cry of anger and terror escaping him.

In succession he flung open the two windows in the office, peering down, and deeming each prospect equally poor. At such a height, Thomas could not fathom a beneficial outcome of such a drop.

Turning, he rescued the ledger from his desk as the fire began spreading; searching for fresh fodder.

Blazing light from the flames competed with dark smoke as both choked the small room. Nearby townsfolk will see all the smoke; they’ll come with ladders and buckets, Thomas assured himself as he leaned his torso out of the window to gasp for air. Now even his own body betrayed him as watering eyes blinded him further. Black clouds poured through the window, enveloping him and invading his lungs.

The act of inhaling, so natural and taken for granted, suddenly failed him, too. Heavy, torrid darkness consumed consciousness as Thomas slid to the floor, the accounting book forgotten, its pages beginning to blacken and curl.

As with each of my triumphs, it was a long time coming, and the zenith fleeting. Still, as the soot-scarred mill was repaired, Thomas’ family passed through grief, and the cycle of life resumed, I had my memory; my moment. His final sputtering wheeze of complete defeat: I will always have that.

Sickly, yellow dawn washes away my reminiscence and the stirring of servants provides a distraction. The cook, as always, is the first to rise, the scents and clamor of her industry observed by the houseman and housekeeper as they weave about the home in their morning ritual.

Eventually the other occupants emerge from their upstairs bedroom to a house stoked into tolerable comfort.

Calling good morning to the servants, the woman wanders into the library, scanning shelves idly until her gaze falls on me.

She is curious about me, and has been for some time. She steps closer, her gray eyes darting over my surface intently.

I examine her in turn, though I have no need to do so; I know her well. A patina of frailty overlays a natural, unusual beauty.

She makes no attempt to rouge her pale, gaunt cheeks, or accentuate her willowy figure, but shrouds herself in convention with modest, colorless attire, and the staid coif she wears daily.

What careful lengths she goes to, endeavoring to blend into the smear of everyday life.

She need not try so hard. The stark, pointless truth of her-- and all-- existence would quail the soul. And from my perspective she is merely another drab panel in the backdrop of my production.

Even before I hear the tapping of his Italian-made shoes on the polished, hardwood floor, I sense the man’s approach. The woman seems to, as well, and turns toward him with a smile.

Good morning, pet. You slept well? he brushes his lips across the top of her hair in an absent kiss. The woman nods. No nightmares? her husband asks.

None.

Any dreams at all? If so, be sure to note them in your journal. Having dispensed with what passes for affectionate formalities, the man takes a breath, but before he can switch topics, the woman gestures in my direction.

Robert, what exactly is this?

As if seeing me for the first time in his life, the man’s dark auburn brows converge in puzzlement. I’m not entirely sure. Some heirloom. It’s been in the family for years; since before my people ever washed up on these shores, I believe.

Really? the woman’s eyes widen in surprise. It came with your forebears from Europe? The style looks… indigenous to North America.

The man shifts footing impatiently, Again, I don’t know, Alice. Mother did some research on the family, back before her, he paused, the shadow of a frown passing briefly across his face, episode, he waved his hand dismissively, weary of the topic. She made notes, but I doubt there’s a sensible word to be found.

He gives his head a slight shake of ambivalence. Anyway, I’ll be heading up to Hot Springs in a couple of days, so be a dear and have Martin book the train tickets.

You must go again so soon? she turns to her husband sadly.

Every month, Alice, the man sighs and attempts a patient smile.

M-might I come with you this time? the woman begins tentatively, then allows her words to spill over themselves as the man begins to shake his head no. I’ll be no trouble! I know you and Ollie will be working. I can entertain myself: take the waters, read, wander the grounds a bit. It would surely soothe my nerves. Behind her back, her delicate hands strangle each other.

The man regards her thoughtfully, another sigh escaping his nostrils, I suppose it would be good for Ollie to give you a once-over; he’s always been better at physiological medicine than I. Though I daresay he’d bow to my greater strength in psychology, he smirks, sidetracked.

That’s why you make such excellent partners, his wife chimes in airily. For all her apparent subservience, the woman seems acquainted with the art of persuasion. In spite of myself, I’m amused.

The man bestows a defeated smile upon wife from beneath a waxed moustache; the epitome of benevolence. Very well. Make arrangements with the Mountain Park Hotel. It’s the off season, so perhaps the place won’t be so damned crowded, banal complaints trail behind him as he stalks away toward the kitchen.

2

I have never seen the woman sneak before. If she was ever adept at it, she certainly isn’t now. I hear the crack of bone against something unyielding and the hissing intake of breath that follows.

Fumbling noises in the dark, then the click of the electric light button. The chandelier in the center of the ceiling flickers a moment then brightens gradually, illuminating the library in its glaring, artificial light.

Built decades past by the avaricious Thomas Ross and resurrected more recently by his son, Robert, the entire space was designed to leave the marveling visitor in awe. Its walls are lined with mahogany bookcases whose heights stretch far above human reach. The shelves are filled with written knowledge spanning every fathomable field of interest. Stained glass windows peek like transom panels above every other set of cases, filtering sunlight during the day so that it must struggle through the colored panes, bending itself to the might of man, and forcing it to enter the room humbled like a penitent.

Garbed in her dressing gown and irreverently oblivious to the majesty of her surroundings, the woman scans the shelves until she finds what she is searching for.

She takes down a leather satchel and shuffles her house slippers to an enormous desk.

With more care than needed, and a decent number of guilt-laden glances toward the doorway, she opens the flap and begins removing the contents: a notebook and terrifyingly haphazard assortment of papers.

Laying the notebook aside, a crease of concentration lodges itself between the woman’s brows as she sifts through the loose, jumbled paperwork. She fishes out and unfolds an intricate sketch of her husband’s family tree. Clusters of sprawling branches join and course to the confluence of the trunk, which bears the artfully inscribed Robert Ross. After a cursory examination, she returns to the other papers, glancing over at me from time to time-- her muse, I suppose-- then back to her work.

The scratchy rustle of taffeta jolts the woman, who straightens from her snooping and turns toward the door, eyes wide.

She knows who it is, we both do. The housekeeper enters slowly, her sight ranging over the room as if looking for items missing, then settle on the woman.

The woman stands, blocking the view of the desk, her smile apprehensive, Mrs. Abbot! Goodness, did I wake you?

The shorter, older woman scowls slightly; a mere deepening of her natural expression of general disapproval. I heard a noise; saw the light. I feared perhaps there were thieves at work. She examines the room again as she speaks, her sharp gaze pausing at the empty space where the satchel of papers once lay.

Foregoing the opportunity to point out the unlikeliness that thieves would linger in a library, the woman smiles again, Heavens, I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’m just looking over some of Robert’s old family papers.

The housekeeper says nothing, still scrutinizing the scene.

It’s all very interesting. Robert’s mother, Irene, was quite thorough in examining her husband’s family, the woman chatters nervously. It appears, she steps forward, catching the older woman’s eye, she’s traced as far back as 16th century France; a tumultuous and fascinating era, to be sure!

The woman’s uncomfortable smile falters as the housekeeper contemplates her mistress with a slow, disdainful blink. Will you be needing me, ma’am.

Something steely suddenly flashes in the woman’s eye and the strained, jovial expression she’d been struggling to uphold fades. No, Mrs. Abbot. I can’t imagine why I would.

After a brief pause-- punctuated by a raised brow of mild surprise-- the housekeeper removes herself, the stiff fabric of her dressing robe whispering noisily.

The woman straightens, filling her lungs, then exhales slowly, her gaze drifting back to me.

With better posture, she returns her attention to the papers splayed across the desk below.

The clock upon the mantle marks time quietly. Near two o’clock the woman slides the notebook and reorganized papers back into their satchel.

With the bundle under her arm she sets off for bed, then pauses. Her eyes dart slyly, though no one else occupies the room, then she snatches me cleanly from the shelf, depositing me in her robe pocket.

She has a secret. Probably the first in years, and I am at the core of it. The knowledge is not displeasing.

3

Ensconced in the woman’s toiletries case, rattling against brushes, mirrors and compacts, the journey to Hot Springs isn’t a pleasant one for me. Still, an energy-- almost reminiscent of excitement-- stirs my usual lethargy as the train pushes north, then west to Asheville, then north again toward our destination.

The terrain begins to undulate as we leave the rust-colored piedmont clay of Charlotte behind. We cross meandering rivers, sluggish in the lower regions, which gain momentum and exuberance with the rising elevation. Peaks began to appear in the murky distance; faint at first, barely a shade