Our Fearful Roots

By Faith Marlow and Carmilla Voiez

Dark memories are carried on the scent of roses.

 

Mary wants a better life for her family and hopes the house she inherited from her aunt in Alabama will be a sanctuary for them all, but Mary and the house share a terrible secret.

Roots run deep in the south, but secrets run even deeper.

Join the Anderson family in a tale of Southern Gothic Horror in four voices.

 

Our Fearful Roots

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sweetly Twisted Books
• Release date: Jul 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201553999

Book preview

OUR FEARFUL ROOTS

CARMILLA VOIEZ

FAITH MARLOW

CONTENTS

WARNING

Music to Set The Mood

Chapter One

Mary

Eric

Mary

Eric

Anita

Chapter Two

Eric

Anita

Mary

Chuck

Eric

Mary

Chapter Three

Eric

Chuck

Eric

Chuck

Chapter Four

Anita

Mary

Eric

Mary

Chuck

Chapter Five

Eric

Anita

Mary

Eric

Mary

Eric

Chapter Six

Anita

Chuck

Eric

Chapter Seven

Anita

Mary

Eric

Chuck

Anita

Chuck

Chapter Eight

Anita

Mary

Eric

Mary

Eric

Chapter Nine

Chuck

Mary

Eric

Chapter Ten

Chuck

Anita

Eric

Chuck

Anita

Chapter Eleven

Chuck

Mary

Eric

Mary

Chapter Twelve

Eric

Chuck

Chapter Thirteen

Eric

Mary

Anita

Mary

Chuck

Mary

Chapter Fourteen

Eric

Anita

Mary

Eric

Chuck

Chapter Fifteen

Eric

Anita

Mary

Chapter Sixteen

Eric

Chuck

Mary

Anita

Chapter Seventeen

Eric

Anita

Chapter Eighteen

Chuck

Mary

Eric

Keep Reading

Acknowledgments

About Carmilla Voiez

About Faith Marlow

Starblood Sneak Peek

Chapter 1

Being Mrs. Dracula Sneak Peek

Prologue

The First Wife

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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Text Copyright © 2021

All rights reserved

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This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.

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Cover by Paul Grover

Formatting by Dreams2Media

Edited by That Editor Chick

Dedicated to the amazing folks who are fighting for a more equal world, including but not limited to - BLM, LGBTQIA+, and indigenous warriors.

Mary wants a better life for her family and hopes the house in Alabama will be a sanctuary for them all, but Mary and the house share a terrible secret.

A tale of Southern Gothic Horror in four voices.

WARNING

Contents may be unsuitable for some readers. This novel contains racial violence, racial tension, abuse, suicide, and substance abuse.

MUSIC TO SET THE MOOD

Playlist

Bauhaus- Rosegarden Funeral of Sores

Kaia Kater- Southern Girl

Pearl Jam- Jeremy

In this Moment- Oh Lord

Boygenuis- Bite the Hand

The Civil Wars- Barton Hollow

Mourning Ritual feat. Peter Dreimanis- Bad Moon Rising

Julien Baker- Sour Breath

Florence & The Machine- No Light No Light

Billie Eilish & Khalid- Lovely

Gary Newman- Bed of Thorns

The Civil Wars- Talking in Your Sleep

Hozier- Arsonist’s Lullaby

Ed Sheeran- Make it Rain

Stone Temple Pilots- Wicked Garden

10 Years- Phantoms

In this Moment- Into Dust

LANY- Heart won’t let me (Stripped version)

The Lumineers- Salt and the Sea

CHAPTER ONE

MARY

"RUN!" The breath that accompanied the voice in Mary’s ear felt colder than the recycled air blasting through the dashboard vent.

She was smothered by darkness, unbroken except for needle-points of blinking stars far above the towering treetops. Her nose burned with the acidic perfume of conifers while her ears caught the sharp sounds of pine needles snapping underfoot. Adrenaline spurred her onward as she sprinted between ancient trunks, knowing that if she were caught, she too would die.

Not a dream— she wasn’t asleep. Was it an exhaustion-induced hallucination?

Mary was in the passenger seat of their minivan— her husband, Chuck, behind the wheel and her children in the backseat. She shivered uncontrollably while staring in disbelief at the superimposed woodland which obscured the road ahead. Her desert-dry eyes pulsed.

What? she asked out loud.

Chuck glanced at her briefly, his forehead furrowed by a frown before returning his concentration to the road ahead. I didn’t say a word, he snapped.

Eric? Anita?

Eric, at fifteen, was frequently lost in his own world, but Anita had the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a rabbit— a five-year-old who missed nothing and would surely be able to provide the validation Mary needed. Both kids glanced up from their electronic devices and shook their heads. Mary noted their bleary-eyed stares and realized even Anita’s senses had been dulled by the monotony of travel.

After four days on the road and three nights spent in cheap motel rooms that stank of other people’s sweat, the atmosphere in the minivan had the weight and darkness of a burgeoning storm. Her family was wrapped in blankets of resentment, and Mary could taste their anger. None of them wanted to leave Seattle, and all of them blamed her for forcing the move.

None of you heard the voice? The sharp, plaintive tone of Mary’s question grated on her nerves. It sounded old and female.

Must have been a dream. You didn’t sleep well last night, Chuck said.

Mary focused on the gradual changes in the landscape. There was nothing in Seattle that could rival such wilderness. Despite their protestations, the move would be good for them all, and transplanting Eric from a concrete jungle to a land of trees, fields, and sunshine would improve his health and soften the dark shadows which hung below the guarded brown eyes he’d inherited from his father.

The rest of the family shared shades of blue— Mary’s as pale as chicory blossom while Chuck’s and Anita’s were tranquil lakes.

Ain’t it beautiful? she tried, turning her body to lean over the back seat and catch the attention of her children.

Anita glanced out the window, but Eric refused to drag his gaze from the hand-held screen.

Mary’s memories of her aunt’s house were vague. She recalled a white, two-story box with a steep roof set in a beautiful garden and a swing which transported her skyward until the call to supper brought her back to earth. Anita would love that sense of freedom and weightlessness as much as Mary had at her daughter’s age. They could adopt a puppy, a spaniel that Anita would probably insist on calling Mr. Dog.

Her aunt’s death, while tragic, postponed the threat of homelessness— a second chance. Even before Chuck lost his job, it had been difficult, and they had been juggling bills and struggling to make rent for five years.

They should arrive within five hours. Mary’s excitement grew. She’d tried to convince herself that home was wherever your loved ones lived, but, as the dense forest waved its welcome on either side, she admitted that her true home would always be here in the South and couldn’t be transported across an entire country.

Mom. Eric’s voice quavered.

Mary looked at her son. His hand was raised, index finger outstretched, pointing at the road ahead.

ERIC

ERIC’S anger bubbled. For four endless days, he had been trapped in a metal cage with his baby sister and arrogant stepfather while they trundled southeast at his mother’s behest. Another ugly road-bridge loomed ahead; a concrete monstrosity that spanned the width of the highway and ended in trees on either side. Time expanded as the minivan nosed toward the shadows beneath its arch. Something hung from the center, black and shadowy, indistinct but human-shaped. At first, he thought someone had foolishly clambered down and was clinging to a rope, perhaps to scrawl graffiti on its pitted surface, but the angles of the head and neck were wrong, and arms twitched on either side of the torso.

Mom. His voice trembled as he pointed at the specter ahead.

She glanced at him before looking ahead, by which time they’d already passed under the bridge. When he peered through the rear window, the shadow was gone.

What did you see? she asked.

He shook his head, telling himself he’d imagined the hanging man. The unchanging landscape, the heat despite the van’s air-conditioning, and the blinding light where the sun hit metal oppressed him and now his eyes were playing tricks.

Anita asked whether they would arrive soon, and Mom said a few more hours. His half-sister looked pissed-off, her sullenness completely out of character.

Signs appeared for Birmingham and Montgomery— place names Eric had heard about in school. Bull Connor and his dogs, Rosa Parks and the coveted bus seat, both happened fifty years ago, but Eric felt as though the minivan was a time machine, pulling them back half a century into a quagmire of anger and resentment. He imagined cotton fields and plantations, rural churches and sweaty preachers speaking in tongues, white hoods and lynching. Did such things still exist in 2018? Was that what he had glimpsed beneath the bridge?

What was Mom thinking? Couldn’t she see what a terrible idea it was to bring her mixed-race son to live in a state where racist slurs were still traded without irony and laws were used to disenfranchise people who looked like him? Not that he would hang around once he turned eighteen. Part of him doubted his own hyperbole, but the other remembered watching cars speed into protesters at the Unite the Right rally last year in Charlottesville.

MARY

MARY was behind the wheel when they reached the small town, so very different from the planned symmetry of large cities— no blocks or right angles, but an organic beauty, a wild remoteness which resonated with her soul. She realized how hemmed in she’d felt for the past decade and a half.

The amazed silence of her family as they approached the house filled Mary with pride. It was prettier than she remembered and would look even better when the shutters were open. The half-moon windows above the front door and in the attic gave it a sophisticated grace while the red roses, which climbed the trellis, provided a dramatic contrast to the white stone walls.

She grinned, reveling in her family’s surprise. Anita’s wide eyes gulped down the fairytale beauty of the cottage. Eric looked as though he was trying to battle his emotions, but Mary was certain she glimpsed admiration in the upturned corners of his mouth. Chuck nodded and his lips pursed in a silent whistle that he was too proud to set free.

Mary released her seat belt and stepped onto a soft lawn that needed a trim. The heady perfume of roses mixed with the fresh scent of pine needles. She inhaled as she stretched out the anxiety of the past four days. Who was she kidding? She’d been stressed for years; she just hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge it until now. Even the sounds were different. Instead of the constant roar of traffic, her ears caught the whisper and click of insects, the music of birds, and the deep croaking of frogs.

She’d left Alabama under a cloud with Eric in her belly, but a clear sky welcomed her home. Blue stretched as far as she could see, and the heat was a lover’s caress. She pulled keys from her purse and strode toward the yellow door. Behind her, she heard the soft groan of metal and the pad of footsteps as the others clambered out of the van.

She unlocked the door and pushed it wide into the dark hallway. The house exhaled a musty odor of emptiness that her family would quickly replace with life. Her favorite men stepped into the cool shade, and she glimpsed Anita’s pink dress as her daughter darted around the side of the house to explore the garden.

Not wanting to spoil this moment, Mary unpacked the groceries without asking for help. They had stopped at Walmart to buy a few essentials, where Anita spotted a must-have doll. For once, Mary did not argue about money when Chuck bought it. The doll wasn’t in the back seat and had probably been enlisted as a fellow explorer to help Anita investigate the backyard. The movers were due within the hour, and Mary hoped, as she grabbed two bags, that the lawyer had followed her instructions and found someone to clean up the place and switch on the power and refrigerator.

There’s no fucking air-conditioning, came the unmistakable growl of Eric as she brought the groceries into the house.

That’s what windows are for, Mary mumbled under her breath.

ERIC

ERIC had to admit the house wasn’t as awful as he’d been expecting but sweat tickled his forehead and upper lip from the moment he stepped out of the van. The shaded interior was a blessed relief at first, but there remained a sultry heaviness in the shadows which clung to his skin and grew worse as he explored upstairs to stake his claim on a bedroom.

He had spotted a half-moon window under the eaves as he stepped out of the car. The thought of it drew him toward the attic. The room was enormous, spanning the entire building without sacrificing headroom, but without shutters to hold back the sunlight, heat saturated the space and penetrated the roof tiles like feasting maggots, creating a haze that rose from the floorboards in ghostly columns.

Old furniture cast long shadows. A light bulb swung like a pendulum despite the stillness of the air, reminding him of what he thought he’d seen beneath the bridge. Large boxes were stacked in piles, and Eric decided to investigate their contents that night, hoping it would be cooler after the sun set.

Escaping the heat, he checked the floor below and found three large bedrooms and a family bathroom. He knew immediately which one Mom and Chuck would take. It had French doors that opened onto a cast iron balcony where two large planters stood sentry. Whatever had grown in them had since shriveled and died and only brown stalks remained, draping listlessly over the edges of the flowerpots, staining the ceramic a putrid ochre, the shade you might leave in a toilet bowl after eating spicy food.

Another bedroom expanded across the length of the house. Although narrow, it offered views of the front and back and had plenty of wall space for pinning up posters. He tugged at the sash window and gained a narrow gap between the sill and the checkered panes of glass but drew no new air into the room. There were no fans or vents— no central air. Who could survive this hellish weather without air-conditioning?

He descended the stairs and spotted his mom hauling a couple of grocery bags into the house.

There’s no fucking air conditioning, he said.

Her lips moved in response, but he did not hear her reply and supposed he should help bring the groceries inside. His head was inside the van when he heard his sister scream.

Heart pounding, mouth dry as a desert, he raced around the side of the house. Sweat streamed from his forehead obscuring his vision and amplifying the dazzling light. Thousands of images punched through his skull and crashed around his mind while he sprinted between roses and pine trees. A snake, a stranger, a dead body. He wished she would stop screaming, but was afraid of what it might mean if the siren-wail suddenly stopped.

Anita! he shouted. What’s wrong?

ANITA

ANITA held her father’s hand as she hopped out of the minivan. As Dad and Eric entered the beautiful house, she darted off to the right, feeling like Alice when she arrived in Wonderland, absorbing the sights and smells of the back garden and enjoying the vibrant colors of magical blooms.

Look, Abby. Anita pirouetted with the doll stretched out before her, letting its unblinking eyes take in the scene. The soles of her sandals clicked on the brick path. She paused to watch a procession of ants traveling back and forth in parallel columns from a mound they had built between the pavers to the nearest flower bed. A large grasshopper leaped in front of her, startling her then jumping away.

Shaggy Spanish moss swayed in a light breeze that carried the scent of countless roses, and an enormous oak tree stood guard, protecting the garden with its gray limbs. An enormous rose bush at the center of the garden made her stop. The raised bed made it look like a trophy on a pedestal, and its deep red petals reminded her of the velvet lining of Grandma’s jewelry box. She attempted to pick a bloom, but her finger snagged on a thorn, and she gasped, yanking her hand back and tearing her skin. A drop of her blood exploded on the ground, and she wiped the rest on the side of her skirt.

A scraggly cat stared at her from the path as still as a statue and unafraid. Its fur was mostly white with blotches of brown that accented its body, ears, and tail.

Hi, kitty!

It pranced down the path, pausing occasionally as if to make sure she would follow, leading her through overgrown bushes and tall grasses to a child-sized house before it ducked between vines and disappeared.

Look, Abby! This can be your new house, Anita said, hesitantly stepping further into the weeds, holding her doll tight to her chest while shielding her face with her other hand, and finally reaching the playhouse door. Where are you, kitty?

The cat replied with a soft meow from behind the door. Anita grabbed the rusty handle and tried to push the door open, but it would not budge. The cat cried out again.

It’s okay, kitty. I’ll get you out. Don’t cry. She leaned in against the half-sized door, her bangs sticking to her sweaty forehead and her feet sliding in her sandals, straining against the gold buckles at her ankles while her toes pressed into the dirt. The door nudged open. She set her doll down on the grass and pushed with both hands until she obtained a wide enough gap for her face and shoulder to slide through. Flakes of peeling paint caught in her hair. Here, kitty, kitty. I’ll let you out.

She scanned an empty room that stank of dirt and damp. Looking down and behind the door, her little heart juddered. The skeleton of a cat stared up at her with hollow eye sockets and open jaws; clumps of white fur clung in places, and a brown pattern was visible at its hip. She stared in disbelief, the air refusing to move in her lungs, unable to understand. The cat had been right there, healthy and playful, but now it was nothing but bones and rot. Dead. The realization pushed air from her chest with a scream. She could not wiggle through the narrow opening. The hem of her dress was caught on something which grabbed her as firmly as her mother’s hand, not letting her look away from the cat’s remains, which screamed back at her in silence.

She could hear nothing above the sound of her own scream, and it felt as though her voice was trapped in the tiny house, muffled by weeds. After minutes or hours, a hand touched her arm, but she couldn’t see who it was.

Mommy!

No, Anita, it’s me, Eric responded. Hold still, your dress is caught on a nail. Eric pulled the fabric loose, mumbling under his breath. Where the hell is Mom?

Eric led her out of the brush, parting the way ahead as if navigating a jungle. She tried to control her sobbing for his sake, but sounds of misery broke through like hiccups. His hand felt enormous around hers, protective.

Abby! I left Abby! she gushed, tears streaming once more.

Stay here. I’ll go get her, Eric instructed. It took him mere seconds to stomp there and back, although she was sure it had taken them nearly five minutes to traverse the same path together. Mom and Dad sprinted toward them as Eric handed her the doll.

Oh my god, Anita, what happened to you? Are you hurt? She checked her over, turning her gently around. Anita collapsed into her mother’s arms and sobbed, unable to speak. Eric, what happened?

I heard her scream. She was trying to get in that playhouse and got her dress snagged on a nail.

Oh, baby. Mom kissed her head and wiped her face.

Dad towered above, tensely silent, teeth clenched. Anita was afraid he would shout at Eric and prepared herself to leap to her hero’s defense. Instead, he looked at her brother and nodded his head. You did good, kid.

The family stayed in the kitchen while the movers emptied their truck. The shutters were open and the sun cast a pale triangle across the surfaces and reflected off the metal handle on the refrigerator. They sat in the shade and a gentle, rose-perfumed breeze kept them comfortable. Anita told them about the family of ants she had discovered, but not about the playhouse or the cat.

CHAPTER TWO

ERIC

EVEN with both windows open and a gentle through breeze, the bedroom felt stifling. Eric prayed Chuck was equally uncomfortable and the pressure to install air-conditioning would increase exponentially as days and weeks passed. Exponentially— he’d learned that word in school about a month ago and used it as often as possible. His lips danced as he whispered it, a workout for his mouth. He didn’t want to be forced to acclimatize to the heat. He whispered acclimatize next and his mouth flapped open and shut.

Noises from the room next door suggested Chuck was ecstatically comfortable. Eric crossed his room and stared out the window at the playhouse roof. It would be a perfect place for Anita to play with her dolls if Chuck fixed it up. If Chuck wasn’t eager to please the princess, maybe Eric could knock in the nails and trample down the weeds; it might distract him from his boredom. Next year, he would be old enough to drive to the city, but there was nothing in this tiny town— no theater or arcade. The house didn’t even have Wi-Fi.

He steeled his nerves to check for sounds from Mom’s room as he crept to the door. Snores. Good. Time to explore the attic. He started with the boxes. The first one was full of bank statements that were of no interest, personal letters, and notebooks which he’d hide under his bed and leaf through at his leisure. The next was stuffed with old clothes which stank of camphor and made his eyes water, but might provide dressing up fun for Anita if Mom washed them first.

The light in the room shifted as the bulb swung on its cable. He opened the next box and grinned, pulling out a bottle and rubbing off the dust that coated the label. Fuck yeah! Six bottles of Jack Daniel’s. He took two.

The light went out. He dared not move, uncertain whether the bulb had failed or someone had spotted the light from the landing and switched it off from the other side of the door. He cursed his over-active imagination which stretched boxes and furniture until they became the walls of a grave towering far above his head. When he searched for the window and its cold promise of light, a shadowy face with a crescent grin stared back.

Don’t scream, he told himself. You cannot get caught here. The shadow isn’t real, but Chuck’s anger is. Stay still. Stay quiet. Keep your eyes closed. Eric peered through his dark lashes and saw nothing by the window but a shallow pool of moonlight. He listened and, hearing nothing bar the rhythmic snores that rose through the floorboards, he carried a box, heavy with books, whiskey, and letters to his room.

ANITA

ANITA flopped onto her side, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Her doll’s rigid hand jabbed her ribs, waking her. Panic clenched her heart when she could not recognize her surroundings. The room was stuffy and smelled unfamiliar, but as her eyes focused, she recognized her belongings, and her heartbeat settled. She was in her new room in Alabama, in a weird old house full of new noises. It was not home, and she did not want to be here. If anyone had asked, she would have told them she wanted to stay in their old apartment in Seattle, but no one had asked.

Movement, caught in the corner of her eye, startled her. It was only shadows from the tree. Hopefully, when Mom unpacked and hung her curtains, it would make the room feel cozier, less threatening.

She sighed, rubbed her eyes, and flipped onto her back. A stripe of light shone through the gap of her narrowly opened door. Mom insisted the bathroom light was left on and the door cracked until the house felt familiar. The floor creaked in