The Chosen

By Kassandra Patti

Two girls. Two time periods. One menacing force. Dark energy follows them everywhere they go. Things start to spiral out of control. Strange events start to happen everywhere they went. How will these girls overcome the dark energy they feel and hear? A swirl of thrilling events spiral into chaos in a story about fate and misfortune.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Dec 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781490778839

Kassandra Patti

Kassandra Patti, also known as , Kassie Patti lives in Montreal, Canada. She lives with her parents, two siblings, and two dogs. She studies Psychology at Concordia University. She enjoys reading on her free time and is an absolute dog fanatic and will not hesitate to greet a dog and their owner on the street.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

March 1742

London, England

She has not left her room, the young lady spoke softly, her English accent light, but present.

Demand she leaves at this very moment. The headmaster of the orphanage stomped his foot. He demanded answers, no excuses.

Sir, I am sorry, but I cannot go with your orders. I ask that you try to get her to leave. Without a word of agreement, she led him to the girls’ room.

The orphanage was spacious, but it did not take long for them to reach the single wooden door that hid the girl from the outside world.

Who is she? Mr. William Hodge asked, before he opened up the door. He needed to see what he was dealing with before he went in.

Her name is Sabine Clarke sir, a 13-year-old girl. She got back from her foster family 3 days ago. They told us she was impossible to handle. She shrugged, before she stepped back giving Mr. Hodge his space.

What has she been doing since she got back? He gave the young caregiver another look.

She has been sitting in front of that wardrobe, the one that the explorer donated to us. With that last few words, she bowed out of his company and retreated down the hall.

Mr. Hodge took a deep breath and opened the door. The room was dimly lit. Only the light from outside was illuminating the room.

His eyes travelled around the room. It was spotless. The bed was made, a small knapsack was lying at the foot of the bed as if it had been placed there and abandoned. His eyes continued to travel to the end of the room, where a small light haired girl sat staring at herself in the mirrors of a double-door wardrobe. The girl was thin and small for her given age of 13 years old. Her spine was visible through her shirt. Her dirty blonde hair was chopped short around her ears. He remembered when he first took her in. She was left on the steps of the orphanage. She was barely old enough to walk when her mother dropped her off. She was a troubled child; she must have been through some terrifying things for she trusted no one and feared everything.

Sabine Clarke, may I have your attention for just a moment. He waited patiently, his hand still on the doorknob.

You cannot have my attention. It is not for you to have. Her voice was small, but her English accent was thick. It had always been thicker than the other children’s.

Why is that even if it is for a single moment of your time?

My time is for no one. I will not spare an hour nor a mere few minutes. She never looked up at him. Her glazed eyes stared straight into the mirror.

He nodded and grunted, before he turned his attention to the mirror. It was a beauty, a masterpiece in the form of a piece of furniture. This wardrobe had one large mirror on each door. There were beautifully, delicate carvings on the frame and around the mirror. Travelling lower on the mirror were two knobs both shaped in the letter ‘C’. It was the letter of the Conqueror. He took what was not his. The wardrobe was finely carved and dealt with from top to bottom. Even the large wooden feet were curved and shiny.

Very well then, I shall see that no one is to disturb you until you are ready to share your time with us all. He nodded at her hoping to see a reaction, but nothing came. She stared, unblinkingly. Her sky blue eyes and blonde hair hid the tragic life of an orphaned girl, but the two thin lines on her cheeks hinted at her past, at the darkness within her.

The afternoon passed and not a word had been spoken of Sabine, no hushed whispers of concern, no angry comments of her disrespect, nothing. When the time for dinner rolled around for the children, Miss Ashford went to fetch Sabine. She would certainly spare a moment for dinner. Just as quickly as silence had descended upon the orphanage, chaos was quick to follow. Miss Ashford’s screams were heard from the main dining hall. Staff flooded the room gasping at the horrors that they were now faced with.

Sabine Clarke had strung a rope in the wardrobe and hung herself. Her pale body swayed silently from the rope. Fears can be overpowered, but for poor, young Sabine Clarke, fear devoured her and spit her out. Fear had claimed many victims and she was just another notch on fear’s belt.

CHAPTER 1

WHITE WALLS

January 12, 2015

Acelia, you need to stay put.

M y arms were bound by leather straps, trapping my arms to my sides, but giving me enough slack to prop myself up on my elbows. My legs were in the same leather straps although they were pinned to the bed. My movement was restricted, but it still gave me slack to shake and wither away from the syringe in her hand. I gazed around; there was nothing to protect myself with, there was a pitcher of water on the counter top although that was out of reach, there was a makeshift stand holding up a curtain to divide the room. I looked back at her and the syringe. The poison they wanted to fill me with, to make me fall asleep for days and send me into a hazy frenzy where the hours melted into days and the days melted into weeks.

Her smile was tight, forced. She had on her signature glasses, the black rims framing her round face and extenuating her green eyes. If you didn’t look past her fake charm and sweet smiles you would think she was a god sent, but I know better. I know who she is and what she does and it is nothing close to godly.

Your parents wouldn’t be too happy to hear that you were giving me trouble now would they? The bitter words dripped from her mouth. She knew she had the upper hand, and she was showing me that she knew. It was a threat, a silent threat that she would carry out: behave or your parents won’t get you out, they won’t see any of your improvement.

I stared at her; I didn’t avert my gaze from hers. Dr Cunningham was always throwing it in my face, my parents liked her more, they trusted what she said, everything, she said was taken with the utmost attention. Second guessing it was never an option. Never.

I mean they would be pretty pissed if they heard that, I looked down at my body, strapped to the bed like an animal in a lab. I looked back up at her, the idea that they strap us down like animals and poke and probe at us fuelled me. I spit in her face, some saliva slipping down the corner of my lip, trailing down my chin. Dr Cunningham cringed; her hand slowly removed my spit from her exposed arm. She gave me a hard look, her eyebrows furrowing.

I wouldn’t want them to have false hope; I shouldn’t start trying to please them now. I took the silence as a chance to make her see I was not joking around; I would not let her do whatever she wanted with me. I was not sick, she was. I let a pleased smile take over my usually sombre expression.

She left, shaking her head as she called a ‘code blue’. Code blue meant I was getting a free ticket to isolation. I had been there enough times to know what a code blue was. Waiting for the nurses now was going to take awhile; they always took their time with the blues. I don’t usually mind their tardiness; it gives me time to enjoy the light, to enjoy the soggy mattress and the bars that dig into your back when you move the wrong way. Isolation would be my home for the next few days, they’d tell my parents that I had an incident and was being punished for my bad behaviour.

I pulled at the constraints, the rattling of the metal frame squeaked with every push I gave. The leather dug into my wrist, the burn marks from the straps were reminders, and a time-keep for how long this has been going on. In and out. In and out. In and out. It was always the same deal. I dug my head into the thin pillow and stared at the ceiling. It was white, not pure white but more of an off white not to hurt the eyes when the light bounced off of it. The cord for the fan was gone, it was beaded the beads were bright setting off the rest of the room even if it was only a splash of colour. I wonder where it went…. It used to help pass the time. I could picture it now, watching the three hands swing around until it became one, the red blending into the white but occasionally popping out, it had all become one blur of continuous whiteness.

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There were scratches on the wall. Four long marks carved into the wall. All of them were equal in size and length. If you looked close enough you could see smears of blood through the cracks. The blood was a dark red, dried up from the time that it had happened. It could have been hours ago, even days ago but I don’t know, they won’t tell me. Do they even know it’s here? I let my fingers skim the top of it; the marks were rugged, messy. They hadn’t thought about the marks, they just went at it with what, anger? Sadness maybe? The wall was not something made of stone, but rather of a softer material in case we become suicidal and plan to harm ourselves.

I let my left-hand rest against the marks and I close my eyes. Everything started to hit me; my senses were heightened. Did they give me a steriliser? The perfect silence left, a white noise came barreling towards my ears, a throbbing pain started to ring through my body. Big meaty hands grabbed at me.

Leave me alone. Could they not see something was wrong? I was going to figure this out on my own; they clearly don’t know what’s happening.

Another hand clamped down on my right arm, the pressure caused me to flinch, my eyes flying open.

Would you quit that? I snapped, although my arm was now tingling with a pain I hadn’t felt before. I threw back my left arm trying to get them to stop but I was stuck. They were too strong.

Get the sedative. Someone behind me was throwing around orders, I couldn’t see them. My vision had become distorted; shapes were taking on weird forms, noises started to sound far off.

I don’t need that shit! Don’t get that sedative. Now I was being pulled to my feet, I had no socks on or shoes; my feet touched the warm ground where I had been sitting.

When had I gotten in this room… Did they give me a drug before they left? The fan… it was the fan that got me, they know how to use it.

Strap her down, It snapped me back to reality, my head was hazy, my vision still blurred, but I heard that as clear as day.

Strap me down? For what, I’m not fighting. I whined. I had been strapped down before, it was uncomfortable.

Acelia, you better cooperate with us. You pulled quite a stunt. It was Cunningham, I could tell. Her hypocritical voice rang in my ears clear as day. There was no distortion for that.

Stunt. Spitting isn’t a stunt.

That was unacceptable, but right now you need to calm down. Calm down? I thought this was calm.

CHAPTER 2

TENEBRIS

10:00 pm

T he room is quiet, eerily quiet. It is always quiet. The grey walls wash into one another; the figure is lying in bed, her eyes darting from one spot to another, following something. Her eyes are closing. Flutter, close, open, flutter, close.

There is no more movement, no more following. Movements are fluid, careful, balanced. There are people now, shades of grey and black dancing around each other. They’re removing straps, but there’s no noise, just movements. Quick and fluid one second they are untying the next they’re moving the body. A big male takes a hold of her, holds her like a toy, a little child. Fragile and easy to break.

The hallway is dark; little lights come from the side, grey lights illuminating the way. Darkness has descended on the world. I move along the shadows, blending into the grey masses, shifting my shape to stay hidden, undiscovered.

They opened doors, grey lights flash from the metallic masses letting them pass through to the next room. The end is not far, the last door is opened, and they place the girl on the floor. I slip in; the shadows are my resting place. The girl is sleeping, her eyes move rapidly behind her eyelids. There is a camera, they can see inside, they can stop the madness, monitor the insane.

Just one touch, soft, gentle, just one. I’m allowed one; the rules do not let you do more. Our hands touch, my left-hand touches her right. My lips curl, as I sliver back to the shadows, my home, the back of the mind, where no one can reach me.

The girl’s eyes open, she is awake. She crawls, her eyes made of glass, unmoving, unseeing. The wall greets her, its softness caressing her hand. Her hand travels up the wall before she pulls down leaving small indents in the material. She does not stop, one spot is deeper than the other; all her fingers are digging now, hard, not stopping. Her fingers are bleeding, the dark grey dripping from her fingertips. Her nails are coming apart, cracking under the pressure. They must not see; and must not hear her, no one comes in the small room; no one helps her. No one should. She stops, fingers bleeding, there is blood on the floor, blood on her hand, her eyes close and she falls asleep. Her eyes not seeing, her mind not remembering.

CHAPTER 3

SAINT JOSEPHINE’S SCHOOL FOR GIRLS

August of 1861

T he school was really a house, a very large house. It was said that this was a prestigious school to attend, yet it did not look grand from the outside. My mother showed me images of the outside, although in the images it looked more spectacular than what it does now. There was a large porch that wrapped around the house. A small set of wooden steps led you up to the door. The house was white as was the porch; the banister was black, offsetting the white to make it look bigger. The house had many windows lining the house, going from the front to the side and presumably the back. There were windows on all floors, the first and second had the most windows and one circular window was on the third floor. It was lonely, its glass blackened, vines covering the right side of it. The house had a cone shaped roof at the center of the building; a brass cross was tall and visible from its corner.

There was a statue in front of the house of an angel. Her face was beautiful, her features soft and serene and her hands gracefully tucked under her chin as if she were praying, or updating God. Her wings were tucked behind her and were small compared to her 3-foot height. Her hair was long and set in waves that moulded to her back and fell