Gypsy, Witch, or Bride(Rich Puckett) Gypsy, Witch, or Bride

Chapter One: Arrival

The silver Rolls-Royce glided through the countryside, its engine a quiet purr beneath the hum of tires on the open road. Beside me sat the woman who had unexpectedly altered the course of my life. I told her my name was May—though it wasn’t my first name, I wasn't ready to share that part of myself just yet.

The car itself was unlike anything I had ever known. The leather seats cradled me, the scent of luxury filling the air, while the world outside blurred past in shades of green and gold. The journey from Poplar Bluff to St. Louis was uneventful, but as we neared the outskirts, the scenery shifted. Towering storefronts lined the boulevard, showcasing gowns, silks, and tailored suits behind gleaming windows. The chauffeur pulled into one of the most exclusive shopping districts in the city.

She took me inside—no hesitation, no discussion—leading me through grand displays of elegant dresses, hats perched on mannequins, shoes lined up in precise, gleaming rows. She bought me everything. Dresses of deep blues and wine reds, hats to match, shoes soft as air beneath my feet. I barely recognized my own reflection as I tried them on.

Then we drove deeper into the heart of St. Louis, past gated estates with sprawling lawns and fountains that glittered in the afternoon light. When we finally turned onto a long, private drive, my breath caught. The estate before me was a vision of opulence—granite walls rising high, marble columns framing a colossal wooden doorway, and a vast fountain marking the entrance.

As the limousine came to a stop, I instinctively reached for the handle, only for her hand to gently but firmly catch my wrist.

"Oh no," she said, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "The chauffeur will open the door. Always."

I sat back, watching as he moved with silent precision, first opening my door, then hers. Arm in arm, she guided me up the wide marble stairs toward the entrance, where a butler was already waiting.

Inside, the sheer scale of the estate made my pulse quicken. Every detail was immaculate—the polished floors, the towering ceilings, the grand staircase curling toward the second floor. But instead of ascending, she led me to a discreet elevator tucked into the corner of the foyer.

On the second floor, she opened the door to my suite—my **own** suite.

The space was immense. A canopy bed stood at the center, its linens impossibly soft. A dressing table gleamed beneath a golden-framed mirror. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books—Dickens, Twain, and names I had yet to learn. A balcony stretched beyond the doors, overlooking the swimming pool below. There was even a private kitchen and a small study, the air thick with the scent of old pages and polished wood.

She turned to me with an easy smile. "Everything here is yours," she said. "We’ll remodel it however you like. Clothes, purses, jewelry—whatever you need."

I barely managed to nod, my gaze sweeping across the room. **What am I doing here?** The thought echoed in my mind as I traced my fingers over the gilded edges of the dresser.

Before long, a soft bell rang from somewhere deep within the estate. I changed quickly, slipping into one of the new dresses, fixing my red hair before stepping into the elevator.

Downstairs, a maid met me at the base of the stairway, guiding me toward the family dining room. It was not the grand banquet hall she gestured toward, but it was still large enough to command awe.

She rose from her chair as I entered, embracing me as though I’d always belonged.

"My brother," she said, turning toward the tall figure beside her.

He was handsome—striking, even—with jet-black hair and eyes that gleamed like onyx. As he took my hand in greeting, his smile was genuine.

"I understand you're my sister," he said. "One of the many children born from our father’s indiscretions. But make no mistake—this is as much your home as it is ours."

There was kindness in his tone, but something in the way his gaze lingered unsettled me. It wasn’t the look of a brother greeting a long-lost sibling. No, it was something else entirely.

And my heart raced at the realization

**Chapter 2**

The dining room had an air of refined simplicity, the sort that made perfection seem effortless. Two waiters moved about with practiced grace, serving a meal that could rival any fine restaurant. The roast was succulent, the potatoes cooked to perfection, each bite a testament to unseen hands crafting something remarkable. I wondered about the kitchen—how large it was, how many worked within its walls—but there was no visible chef. Still, nothing could have been prepared more flawlessly.

They offered me wine, but I declined. The influence of alcohol was something I did not care for. Instead, I asked for sweet tea, and within moments, a tall glass of the finest, sweetest brew was placed before me.

When the meal was over, Mary turned to her brother. "John," she said, "why don’t you take May into the sitting room for a bit? I’ll be in shortly."

John stood, offering his arm like a perfect gentleman. Though I had been raised by gypsies, instinct guided me—I clasped his arm just above the elbow as we walked from the dining room into the expansive foyer.

"The double doors ahead lead to the main library," John said, gesturing toward them. "That’s where we hold large gatherings. But what Mary calls the sitting room is what I’d consider the family room—more intimate, more personal."

When he opened the mahogany door, I quickly realized his definition of "small" differed vastly from my own. The room had three grand windows dressed in cascading drapes, facing a fireplace with an oak mantel adorned by a regal clock and two brass horses. At least, I had assumed they were brass. Later, I would learn they were solid gold.

Before the fireplace sat a loveseat, flanked by two elegantly upholstered side chairs—a rich blood-red velvet that matched the settee perfectly. Between them rested a sturdy wooden coffee table, atop which sat a finely engraved box.

"I assume you don’t smoke?" John asked. "But if you do, the box on the left holds cigarettes, and the one on the right holds cigars."

In the center of the table stood a pipe stand. John took a moment, selecting an aged walnut pipe. He packed the bowl with tobacco, struck a match, and walked to the fireplace to light it. Almost immediately, the warm, fragrant aroma of Irish Cream tobacco filled the room.

I sank into one of the side chairs, the velvet yielding softly beneath me. The walnut-paneled walls, the modest arrangement of furniture, and the chandelier hanging low above us—all of it exuded a quiet, understated warmth.

The chandelier caught my eye. Its crystals gleamed, but one shone brighter than the rest. "Are those crystal?" I asked.

John smiled. "All but the center one. That one—" he pointed, and I could see the way it refracted the light almost unnaturally—"is diamond."

A diamond hanging from a chandelier. I had never seen such extravagance before.

John settled into the chair across from me, pulling a small wooden stool forward to rest his feet. Pipe smoke curled in slow, thoughtful swirls as he spoke. "Your story is interesting," he mused. "Mary is convinced the house has spirits. Are you afraid of ghosts?"

I responded without hesitation. "No. If there are spirits here, they will reveal themselves in time. And when they do, I will welcome them."

John laughed at that—a deep, hearty laugh that caught me off guard.

Mary walked in just as his laughter faded, eyes widening slightly in surprise. "John," she said, "I haven’t seen you laugh like that in a long time. What’s got you so tickled?"

He grinned. "I see now—I have two women who are turning this hokey pokey into something grand."

Mary smiled knowingly. "Are you ready, John?" she asked. "Ready for two women who don’t see this as trickery, but as the presence of something—someone—remaining with us?"

John turned his gaze toward me and spoke with quiet sincerity. "Whether this house holds simple superstition or true spirits, I don’t know. But I do know that having you here feels… right."

Mary settled into the deep red velvet settee and looked at me warmly. "There’s something else you should know," she said. "Some of our servants have families, and you’ll see their children from time to time. While they are supposed to stay in the basement, we allow them far more freedom than that. If you happen to see a child in the hallway playing, don’t be surprised. Do you like children?"

"I love children," I answered. "And someday, if God wills it, I would love to have some of my own."

John gave an approving nod. "That’s an intriguing thought."

The air hummed with a quiet energy, as though the very walls were listening.

**Chapter 3**

As John, Mary, and I continued our conversation, a servant entered the room and quietly built a fire in the fireplace. The evening air had turned cool, and the flickering flames sent a soft, golden glow dancing across the walls.

Just as I am not one for alcohol, I have never truly enjoyed coffee—except to take the chill off. When the servant brought in a pot, John and Mary each accepted two cups, but I declined. He turned to me and asked, *"What would you like instead?"*

I hesitated, feeling oddly childish in my request. *"Hot chocolate,"* I said. *"With plenty of marshmallows."*

He smiled and disappeared, only to return moments later with a perfect cup of hot chocolate, piled high with soft, melting marshmallows. As I took my first sip, warmth spread through me—not just from the drink, but from something in the air.

I glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was late. I said my goodnights and made my way to my room.

For some reason, as I walked through the halls, I did not feel like a visitor in someone else’s home, nor did I feel like a guest in a grand hotel. I felt something far deeper—something almost *familiar.* The house welcomed me.

I kicked off my shoes and stepped onto the elevator barefoot. The marble floor beneath me was cold at first touch, but then, curiously, it warmed as though sensing my presence. When I stepped out and wandered down the hallway, the carpet beneath my feet felt softer than before—not just cushioned, but lifting me ever so slightly with each step.

The hallway, though empty, did not *feel* empty. It was as though I had stepped into the presence of a gathering—silent figures unseen but *felt,* their warmth surrounding me.

When I reached my suite, I reached for the door—but before my fingers touched the handle, it opened of its own accord, inviting me inside. There was no servant, no unseen mechanism, no reasonable explanation.

I stepped through and gently closed the door behind me, running my hand over the wood. *"You're a beautiful door,"* I whispered. *"This is a beautiful room."*

As I undressed and slipped into my nightgown, music drifted through the space. There were no speakers. No instruments. No voices. But the melody was unmistakable—*Music Box Dancer* by Frank Mills.

A smile tugged at my lips. Something about it felt absurd, perhaps even impossible, and yet, as I pulled back the covers and lay down, I felt a quiet joy—almost as though the room had *smiled back.*

The mattress cradled me, warm despite the cool night air. There was no fire in the fireplace, no servant tending to the space, and yet the room wrapped itself around me in comforting warmth. It felt like being held—as I had been as a child in the arms of my mother and my grandmother, rocked gently, lulled to sleep with hushed songs of love.

As I drifted into sleep, a voice whispered—not loud, not startling, but soft. Familiar.

*"We are glad to have you in this house, for you will help make it a home. It has not been a home for a long time. We will teach you and show you mysteries beyond your belief. You will see things you have never seen, because we recognize that you are a part of us."*

And then sleep took me, deep and dreamless—until the voices of children stirred me awake.

*"Be careful! Be careful! Throw me the ball, but be careful—you don't want to make the master angry."*

*"Shh, don't be so loud! You'll wake them up!"*

I knew immediately what it was. I had heard the playful chatter of children all my life—siblings, cousins, the laughter and games that filled my childhood. Someone was playing catch in the hallway.

I wanted to be a part of it.

Slipping from my bed, I stepped onto the warm floor, ignoring the robe draped nearby and moving to the door in my long nightgown. Slowly, I opened it and peered into the corridor.

There, bathed in a gentle glow, stood two children—a girl with long, golden hair cascading past her waist, and a boy with auburn locks the color of my own. She was perhaps eight; he looked to be no older than seven.

The kinship I felt was immediate.

I stepped forward, placing a finger to my lips, whispering, *"It's okay. Throw me the ball."*

The little girl grinned and held up a strange ball—not a baseball, not a volleyball, but something in between. It shimmered, glowing softly in the dim light, though no lamps were lit and no moonlight spilled in from unseen windows.

She tossed it, and I caught it effortlessly.

I turned to the boy and asked, *"Do you like them high, low, or fast?"*

He laughed. *"Throw it how you feel! But your comment makes me think of my papa—some say he's a little fast and loose."*

The girl giggled. *"You shouldn't talk about Daddy that way."*

I smiled, tossing the ball to him. *"And who is your papa?"*

She beamed mischievously. *"You'll find out in time. But not yet. Let’s make it our secret."*

For what felt like an hour, we played catch—tossing the ball, shifting positions, jumping high, laughing. They moved with astonishing agility, their feet seeming to carry them effortlessly upward as though lifted by unseen springs.

It wasn’t a time for conversation. It was joy, simple and pure.

Eventually, I told them we should all return to our rooms. They took each other’s hands, smiling, and turned toward the hallway. As they walked away, the glow surrounding them began to fade, the light dimming with each step.

I stepped back into my room, finding it still bathed in that soft illumination—the warmth unchanged, the music a memory, the unseen presence *still there.*

As I climbed into bed, that gentle voice returned.

*"You are what we have longed for. Thank you for bringing joy into our home."*

And with that, I slept.

Chapter 4: Whispers and Wonders**

I woke as if suspended between dreams, wrapped in warmth, the lingering scent of roses drifting through the air—sweet, intoxicating. A whisper brushed against my mind, silk-soft and familiar.

*"Wake up, dear. It’s a bright new day."*

The house. It was speaking to me.

A thrill ran through me as I threw off the covers, feet sinking into plush carpet. No shoes, no robe—just the untamed energy of a country girl, unbound by high society’s rigid rules. As if expecting me, the elevator doors stood open. When I stepped off, a woman waited at the foot of the grand staircase, hands folded neatly before her.

*"Let me escort you to breakfast, Madame,"* she said.

*"Just May,"* I corrected, waving dismissively. *"And we’re friends—no need for formalities."*

She hesitated but gave a nod. *"Very well, May."*

Sunlight poured through the tall windows of the dining room, illuminating the delicate china and polished silver. At the far end of the table sat John, crisp in a suit that likely cost more than I’d earned in a lifetime. He stirred his coffee, poised and meticulous—until he saw me.

His spoon froze mid-stir. His lips twitched. Then, laughter broke through his usual composure.

*"In twenty-five years,"* he said, voice rich with amusement, *"I’ve never seen anyone come to breakfast in their nightgown."*

I plopped into my seat, grinning. *"Loosen up, John. It’s breakfast. Enjoy it."*

To my surprise, he did. With a smirk, he shrugged off his coat, handed it to the waiter, and tugged free his tie.

*"Better?"*

*"Much."*

As if summoned by magic, breakfast appeared—a towering stack of pancakes for him, eggs and bacon for me. My hot chocolate was crowned with marshmallows, and the tomato juice glowed ruby-red in the morning light. *This must be heaven.*

Then Mary entered. She stopped short, eyes darting between John’s undone collar and my bare feet.

*"I never thought I’d live to see the day,"* she murmured. *"My brother at breakfast without his tie, and my sister in her nightgown. Am I dreaming?"*

*"This is breakfast,"* I said, lifting my cup in mock toast. *"This is home."*

With a laugh, Mary unbuttoned the top of her dress and settled in. We ate, we talked, we laughed—until John, ever the responsible one, sighed and pulled his coat back on.

*"Work calls,"* he murmured.

He kissed Mary’s cheek. And then—unexpectedly—mine.

A slow warmth spread through me, my pulse skipping like a startled rabbit. He lingered for just a fraction longer than necessary, his gaze searching mine before he pulled away.

*"And what will you do today?"*

*"Explore,"* I said, willing my voice to stay steady.

*"The house is yours. The Spitfire’s in the garage if you want it."*

Then he was gone, Mary following soon after, leaving me alone with the last of my tomato juice.

June appeared like a phantom, pulling back my chair before I could move.

*"By the way,"* I said, *"what’s your name?"*

*"Most call me June."*

*"Then June it is."*

Back in my suite, the balcony doors stood open, the air carrying distant strains of music—*"Oh, what a beautiful morning!"*—sung by what sounded like a hundred voices.

But no one else seemed to hear it.

*You do,* a voice inside me whispered. *Because you’re part of us now.*

Part of the house. The shadows. The magic.

A blue shorts-and-blouse set waited for me. I slipped into them, skipped shoes (country girls didn’t need them), and ventured down the hall—not toward Mary’s wing or John’s study, but toward the place the children had disappeared to last night.

The corridor narrowed, darkened. Hidden panels lined the walls. A flicker of light caught my eye—a glowing handprint, shimmering against the wood.

*Touch.*

I pressed my palm to it. The wall *unfolded* like a curtain parting, revealing a hidden hallway sloping downward.

Light bloomed from nowhere as I snapped my fingers. More panels, more secrets. Did the others know this existed?

Then—her. The golden-haired girl skipped toward me, laughter bright as sunlight.

*"Exploring?"*

*"Yes. And I’d rather do it with you."*

She giggled. *"My name’s for me to know and you to find out."*

Hand in hand, we skipped down the sloping hall, mirrors reflecting rooms from unseen angles.

*"Snap your fingers,"* she whispered at the end of the corridor.

I did. The wall dissolved.

Sunlight. Roses. A garden bursting with color. She led me to a bench by a duck-dotted pond, speaking of the house’s secrets as I shared tales of gypsy life.

*"But you have magic,"* she said suddenly.

*"Yes. But don’t tell."*

*"The ones who need to know already do."*

Too soon, she vanished, leaving me alone. When I returned, the doors opened before I reached them. June stood waiting.

*"How did you—?"*

*"The house told me."*

Lunch was merry—staff joining me at the table, stories exchanged like treasured relics. Later, the music swelled again, pulling me into a dream—or a vision.

Mary woke me, inviting me to the garden. But the roses were gone, replaced by lilacs, tulips, a single stubborn rosebush. The house reshaped itself for whoever walked its paths.

Dinner. John’s baritone in the music room. Mary’s fingers dancing over the piano keys. And me, singing *"Blue, Blue, My Love is Blue,"* stealing a glance at John.

Something shimmered between us—new, dangerous, electric.

That night, the house tucked me in—fireplace crackling, bath drawn, a fresh nightgown laid out. As sleep took me, I smiled.

This was home.

And its secrets were only beginning to unfold.

Chapter 5: Echoes Beneath

Morning arrived in golden streams through the tall dining room windows. The house hummed with quiet activity, servants moving with practiced grace, the scent of warm bread and fresh coffee drifting through the air.

John sat at the head of the table, as always, impeccably dressed, though there was a new ease in his posture—a lingering effect of yesterday’s unusual breakfast. Across from him, Mary sipped her coffee, eyes scanning the morning paper.

I took my seat.

I glanced at John, but he simply gave a small nod of approval.

Breakfast was a relaxed affair. Conversations drifted between plans for the day, the weather, and quiet laughter over Mary’s insistence that John take an actual *day off* sometime this century.

*"Not a chance,"* he muttered, sliding on his coat.

*"Then at least pretend to enjoy your work,"* Mary teased.

*"I do,"* he said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. His gaze flicked toward me, a lingering pause before he finally straightened. *"The house is yours, May. Try not to get into too much trouble."*

*"No promises,"* I grinned.

John left, the heavy door shutting behind him, and with that, the atmosphere shifted—lighter, freer, as if the house itself exhaled.

Mary stood, stretching slightly. *"Well, then, May. Since you’re exploring the house, let’s start in the library."*

June cleared the table as we made our way down the hall, the rich scent of leather-bound books greeting us before we even stepped inside.

*"The house has stories,"* Mary murmured. *"And it’s time you heard them."*

The library smelled of old paper and polished wood, a fortress of forgotten knowledge bound in leather and dust. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, their spines whispering stories across generations.

Mary and I sat before the largest table, sprawling photo albums open between us. Sepia-toned faces stared from their pages, their expressions caught forever in time.

*"The house has been in our family for generations,"* Mary murmured, running a fingertip over a brittle page. *"Built in 1812. But what most don’t know is how it changed over time."*

She flipped a page, revealing a faded sketch—an architectural drawing. Beneath the house, a second structure mirrored its foundation.

*"The basement?"* I asked.

*"Not just the basement,"* she said, lowering her voice. *"There’s something beneath it. A place that was never recorded officially."*

More pages. More faces. Great-great-grandfather stared back at me, his gaze sharp even through the yellowing photograph.

*"He was different from his time,"* Mary continued. *"Didn’t believe in slavery. Instead, he brought in Irish workers. By the time of the Civil War, they were free. And after that..."*

Her fingers hovered over the next page—an entry written in cursive so delicate it looked like lace.

*"The sub-basement became part of the Underground Railroad."*

The words sent a shiver through me. The weight of history pressed against the room, heavy with secrets.

*"How much of it is still there?"* I asked.

Mary hesitated. *"I don’t know. John doesn’t know, either. But if you’re exploring today..."*

She closed the book, offering me a knowing look.

*"You might find out."*

The staircase to the basement creaked beneath my bare feet. I descended past shelves stocked with preserves, past the furnace’s steady hum.

Then, there—a door. Not old like the others, but **ancient**.

I traced its iron handle, cool to the touch. *This wasn’t supposed to be here.*

A whisper brushed against me. Not spoken words—something deeper.

*"Touch."*

I pressed my palm against the wood.

It didn’t swing open. It *unraveled*.

Beyond lay darkness, stretching deep into the bones of the house. I stepped forward, the air shifting, thickening—as if crossing an invisible threshold.

Light flickered at the edges of the chamber, revealing stone walls and wooden beams, etched with initials and symbols worn by time.

And then—movement.

Children. **Not ghostly, not illusionary, but real.**

They played among scattered quilts and forgotten crates, their laughter soft, surreal.

A golden-haired girl looked up, smiling as if she’d been waiting.

*"You came."*

I swallowed. *"What is this place?"*

*"It remembers."*

The lanterns brightened, revealing old pathways—escape routes once used by those seeking freedom. My breath caught as the truth settled around me.

*"Were you... here?"* I whispered.

Her smile deepened. *"We never really left."*

A draft rustled the curtains. From the far corner, a shadow stirred.

Then, he stepped forward.

Great-great-grandfather.

*"You’ve found it, child,"* he said, his voice like wind through the trees. *"Now, you must understand it."*

Chapter 6

I found myself inexplicably drawn to Great-Grandpa. I had found him—Grandpa’s father—but what exactly had I uncovered? I wasn’t sure.

He took my hand and guided me down a narrow hallway, short in length but stretching endlessly in anticipation. When we stepped into the room beyond, its vastness swallowed me whole. The furnishings—aged and steeped in history—spoke of generations past. An antique dealer would have wept with joy at such a sight.

A cast-iron stove sat in the corner, its warmth curling through the air. In a rocking chair, an old woman sat—her face unmistakable from the photographs Mary had shown me. Great-Great-Grandmother. Seated at the long wooden table beside her were Grandma and Grandpa. But what seized my breath was the sight of a younger couple—strikingly familiar despite their youth.

I knew at once. The man bore John’s features so closely they might have been twins at this stage of life. His wife—delicate yet intense—shared Mary’s likeness. She could only be Mary’s mother.

I gasped, words forming in my throat—but before I could speak, the silence shattered.

The man’s voice rang sharp with anger, though his fury was not aimed at me but at his wife.

“You never wanted to be here,” he accused, eyes burning with resentment. “We should have been alive upstairs, in the mansion, watching our children grow. But no—you let jealousy twist your mind, and in your rage, you shot me.”

She met his fury with her own. “Why are you so angry?” she spat. “I was right! My suspicions weren’t wrong—and besides, you shot me too. Now, we’re both imprisoned here forever.”

The harmony I had felt within the house wavered. A bitterness lingered, poisoning the air between them. These two were not at peace, their hatred carving through the tranquility the others had embraced.

I turned, scanning the room—the benches, tables, and couches occupied by familiar faces. Their eyes watched, ancient and knowing. They were family. I had seen them before, their likeness preserved in faded photographs.

But only these two warred in the shadows.

I understood then. This was the presence that had troubled Mary—the discord in the home that needed mending. It was why she had come to me, why she had placed this burden in my hands.

The woman’s attention snapped toward me. Her glare was ice, her words sharp as knives.

“And who do you think you are, calling yourself my husband’s daughter? You’re no blood of this family. A gypsy or a witch—I have yet to determine. But you are not my sweet Mary’s sister.”

A shift in the room. Grandpa and Great-Grandpa stood in unison, their movements eerily synchronized. They stepped forward, their presence towering, their resolve unshaken. With a single motion, they raised their hands—fingers pointing directly at her.

Great-Grandpa’s voice was cold, resolute.

“You have never been a part of this family,” he declared. “You fought against the house. You fought against your husband. And now you fight against one we welcome. She is more a daughter to us than you have ever been.”

The weight of their words settled over the room, pressing down on her like an unyielding force.

I knew this would not be resolved easily. The road to peace would take time, but I vowed to find a way—to help them.

With gratitude, I thanked them for their warmth, their music, their acceptance.

Then, making my way back through the corridors, I climbed the creaky stairs. And, to my surprise, I emerged once again in the hallway I had ventured down before.

Waiting for me, as if they had always been there, were the two familiar figures—the little blonde-haired girl and her red-haired brother. They each took my hand, their grip small but firm, their eyes shining with unspoken understanding.

In near unison, they asked, “Can we call you sister? You feel like a sister.”

Emotion surged through me—unexpected, undeniable. My heart pounded, my lips curling into a smile as I knelt before them, pulling them into a gentle embrace.

“I lost my family long ago,” I whispered. “I made a home with the gypsies, but it never felt like home. You—both of you—have given me that. I have a family again.”

I pressed a kiss to each of their foreheads, then withdrew to my room. Exhaustion washed over me. A quick shower, a soft nightgown, and the moment my head touched the pillow—I surrendered to sleep.

Chapter 7

I awoke with the distinct feeling that something had shifted in the night, subtle yet undeniable—like the lingering echo of a dream I had forgotten. The house breathed with quiet anticipation, its walls murmuring secrets too faint to grasp.

And then, the music began again—another Frank Mill tune, the voices weaving through the air like restless spirits:

*If you love me, love me, love… why did you ever, ever leave me, girl?*

The melody wrapped around me, its sorrowful refrain curling like mist against my skin. As I rose, the carpet welcomed the weight of my bare feet, warm and yielding. The house responded in its familiar way—the bathroom door swinging open before my fingers reached for it, the mirror reflecting my face with eerie clarity, as though studying me.

I dressed quickly—black shorts, a light blue blouse. Shoes felt unnecessary. The house would not let me stumble.

The hallway stretched ahead, the piano notes drifting in time with my footsteps. *There is no finer player*, I mused—though the unseen musician remained a mystery.

Downstairs, June awaited, steadfast as ever, her presence as constant as the ticking of the grand clock. Across the dining table, John sat with a relaxed grin, his suit coat and tie abandoned. A golden waffle gleamed before him, strawberries glistening in the morning light.

“No nightgown?” he teased, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Starting a new trend?”

I laughed, though a strange flutter stirred in my chest—something alive and unnameable. Every time John smiled, something deep within me stirred, as if responding to an old, forgotten truth.

My breakfast appeared—three fried eggs, skillet potatoes, orange juice, and cocoa crowned with marshmallows. Mary arrived moments later, dressed more casually than usual, her plate carrying sunny-side-up eggs and ham. Conversation meandered until I voiced an idea that had lingered at the edge of my thoughts:

“Why not have the staff join us? Like a family.”

John’s brow arched, but Mary nodded without hesitation. “A fine idea.”

And so it was decided.

John left for work with a kiss pressed to Mary’s cheek. Then, to my surprise, he hesitated beside me. His lips brushed my skin—brief, fleeting, like the whisper of a moth’s wing.

“Enjoy your exploring,” he murmured.

The house beckoned.

I wandered the rotunda, my fingers tracing the smooth wood of each door until one yielded beneath my touch. Inside, portraits lined the walls—faces I recognized from the basement, their eyes following me with an unsettling awareness.

Then, the glow.

I knew what to do.

My palm pressed against the panel, and the wall gave way, revealing a passage. A snap of my fingers, and the corridor illuminated. No peepholes this time, no doors—just an endless hall leading into an impossible space: an indoor playground, lush and vibrant.

There they were—the blonde girl (*my sister* now, not just my friend) and the boy (*my brother*), laughing with three other children. Their joy was infectious, unburdened, as though time had never touched them.

“May’s here to play!” the girl cried.

And so I did—pushing swings, spinning the merry-go-round, until the smallest child stumbled, her knee splitting open. Instinct guided me. My hand hovered over the wound, and with a shimmer, the torn skin knit itself whole.

The children gasped.

“*Real* magic,” the boy whispered.

I showed them illusions—coins plucked from the air, trees shifting their colors at my whim. Their awe was radiant, but turned solemn when I pressed the questions that gnawed at me:

*How old are you?*

*How did you come to be here?*

Their answers came hesitantly, tangled in half-truths. June was their mother; the furnace keeper, their father. The others belonged to the butler, the cook. None had ever stepped beyond the estate’s bounds.

“People see us only if we let them,” the girl explained. “Great-grandpa says secrets must stay hidden.”

A puzzle piece slid into place. *Hundreds of years,* I thought. *Yet they remain children.*

I took them to the city—perhaps reckless, but their delight was undeniable. The Spitfire hummed beneath us as we raced through St. Louis, their faces pressed eagerly to the glass. Greasy hamburgers at a diner left them wide-eyed; a photo booth at Woolworth’s captured proof of their existence beyond the house’s shadow.

But when we returned, something had shifted.

That evening, I dressed with deliberate care—pearls resting at my throat, my hair smoothed into a burnished wave. I wanted John to notice.

Instead, I was met with *her.*

A dark-haired woman, poised and lethal, clung to John’s arm as though she had already claimed him. Her smile was a blade, sharp and gleaming. Her gaze—possessive, knowing—watched him like a predator circling its prey.

And John?

He tolerated her presence. But I *felt* it—the tension in the air, the unspoken threat lingering in her eyes.

She was the hunter.

And John had yet to realize he was prey.

Chapter 8

**The Battle Within**

I was fighting the most desperate battle of my life—not with sword or spell, but with my own traitorous heart. There, on John’s arm, stood *her*—radiant, poised, everything a man like him should desire. And I, who had convinced myself that my devotion was purely of spirit, now burned with a hunger that shamed me.

John’s voice was steady, polished like the candlelight gliding over the silver. His words carried no hesitation. *"May, this is Sally."*

My fingers obeyed, my lips formed the expected greeting. *"Welcome, Sally."* But the name was dust on my tongue.

Mary, ever the mistress of Blackthorne Hall, should have been delighted—here was a woman of beauty, of means, a suitable match for the heir of this estate. Yet her expression was carved from ice. *"Let’s eat,"* she said, velvet over steel.

The dining hall had been transformed—candles flickered like watchful spirits, their glow weaving gold into the fabric of the tablecloth, the crystal shivering under its reflected light. The scene was resplendent, suffocating.

*"I’m not hungry."* The words scraped against my throat. And then—I fled. Like a wraith, slipping into the night, running from the feast that heralded my undoing.

**The Garden’s Embrace**

I did not seek the safety of my chamber. Instead, I drifted to the farthest reach of the garden, beneath the brooding shadow of the tower—its jagged silhouette carving into the moonlit sky. There, among roses steeped in secrets, I wept.

Then—a presence. Not human. Not quite. The air itself curled around me, warm as a lover’s sigh, steady as a heartbeat. The *house*—alive, ancient—held me within an embrace no mortal arms could offer.

I did not know how long I lingered before Mary found me. A single tear traced her cheek, silver in the gloom.

*"Your heart is breaking,"* she murmured. *"I knew you loved him from the beginning. But May… he does not love that girl. He loves* you. *When you enter a room, his very soul ignites. That night at the piano—his song was yours. I have never heard such longing in a man’s voice."*

I choked on a sob. *"But she means to marry him! And he—he does not resist!"*

Mary’s smile was sly, eternal. *"Do not underestimate John. And do not doubt the magic of this house—the whispers, the voices, the generations that have loved you before you ever set foot here."*

**The Tower’s
Judgment**

Above us, John endured his own torment. Sally’s voice—sharp as shattered glass—ripped through the sanctity of Blackthorne Hall.

*"This chandelier is hideous. This carpet—a peasant’s rag! When we marry, I will strip this mausoleum to its bones and make it* modern."

John’s fists clenched. Every word was an act of desecration. This room—*their* room, where May’s laughter had once danced with the firelight—was now drowned beneath the weight of his future’s ruin.

He led her to the tower, grasping at escape. But Sally’s greed knew no bounds. *"These walls could be* whitewashed. *That balcony—torn out for a proper terrace—"*

John fled, the elevator doors closing like a tomb.

And then—*she* appeared.

A woman, flame-haired, her eyes burning with centuries of fury. John’s mother. The balcony doors groaned open of their own accord.

*"You will not marry my son,"* she hissed. *"You will not be part of* this house."

Sally sneered. *"Who are you, crone?"*

The ghost’s hand shot out—not to strike, but to *drive*. Sally staggered back, shrieking, teetering on the balcony’s edge—

**The Witch’s Mercy**

Mary and I watched from below, our breath stolen. The moment stretched, endless.

Then—instinct. My magic surged. The hedges beneath the tower twisted, thickening, rising like a living net. Sally fell—but the thorns cradled her, denying her the stones below.

*Mercy.* Even now, I would not let her blood stain these halls.

I stepped forward, gripping her wrist as she gasped in the dirt. *"Leave. Never return. And tomorrow—do not go to your office. You no longer work for John."*

Mary led her away, and with a flick of my will, I scoured Sally’s mind clean of the night’s horrors.

Then—John. His face was anguish, his mouth already shaping apologies. I silenced him with a finger to his lips.

He crushed me to him.

And then—*his mouth on mine.*

The world dissolved. This was no spell, no enchantment—this was the oldest magic of all. The same fire that had bound my mother to my father, that had flickered in the portraits of Blackthorne’s past lovers.

I was lost. I was found.

And the house—oh, the house *sang* with us.

Chapter 9

The corridor unfurled before me, its air thick with remembrance, its walls pressing close as though they had mouths to whisper with. My pulse skittered in my veins—erratic, fevered—as I reached my chamber. The lamp’s glow did little to cut the murk, pooling in the corners like some hesitant specter.

*Had I left the door ajar?*

The thought was swallowed by exhaustion. I did not undress. Did not even will myself to extinguish the light before collapsing onto the bed, the linens too warm against my skin. The house wrapped itself around me, drawing my breath into its own rhythm, and from some unseen space—perhaps the bones of its foundation—a melody drifted.

Soft. Lulling.

*Hush, little baby, don’t say a word…*

A tune long dormant, buried with the woman who once sang it to me, whose voice had crumbled to dust. But here it was, threading through the walls as though she had never truly left, as though the house remembered even what time sought to erase.

I surrendered.

Morning arrived with a weight. The light was thick, golden like honey dripped slow, clinging to the edges of the room. I dressed without thought—dark blue slacks, a winter-sky blouse—and descended to the dining room, where June waited. But the air had shifted. The house watched.

Then the door swung open.

*John.*

Disheveled. His sleeves rolled, his jacket discarded, his cravat absent, as though his restraint had been left somewhere in the dark. His bare throat sent a flush through me, an aching warmth that curled at the edges of my resolve. Without pause, he pulled me near, his lips catching against mine—soft, reverent, yet fevered beneath the surface.

“June,” he murmured, not breaking my gaze, “see that the table is prepared. *I* will escort her in.”

Everything had changed.

Where once I had sat alone, now he took the place beside me. The meal stretched between us—eggs golden as sunrise, toast brittle and white as bone—but none of it mattered. Only him. Only the way Mary entered, too sharp-eyed, too knowing, a slow amusement curled at the edges of her lips.

Conversation moved like smoke—wisps and spirals of ordinary things, drawn tight around something unsaid. When John rose to leave, his kiss lingered on my skin, a mark impossible to shake.

“You’ll explore further today?”

“Of course.” My answer was his echo.

Mary stepped forward, her voice light but deliberate. “I’ll stay with you. There’s much to uncover.”

The house received us. Its corridors stretched wide, its shadows shifting. I reached for a sconce, its flame leaping to life beneath my touch.

“You and I have much to discuss,” I said, though it felt more like a promise than simple speech.

Mary hesitated, candlelight cutting hollows beneath her cheekbones. “I don’t know how to ask it.”

I smiled. “You want to know what happened last night.”

A nod.

“Magic,” I said simply. “But the oldest kind—the sort rooted in longing, in belief. The house remembers love, Mary. It keeps it in its walls, its bones. Last night, you *felt* it. The bushes catching Sally, the whispers, the presence of something unseen… You’ve heard the children before, haven’t you?”

She exhaled, eyes dark. “And what *kind* of magic?”

I laughed, the sound swallowed by the corridor’s hush. “The kind that bends time. That defies death.”

Ahead, the wall shimmered—more shadow than solid. I pressed my palm to it, and it yielded like mist.

The sub-basement yawned before us.

Mary stiffened, breath hitching as she stepped forward. In the dim glow of a forgotten chamber, a wingback chair stood.

And upon it, her mother.

*Impossible. Impossible.*

A book balanced in her lap, her expression warm, her arms opening without hesitation.

Then came the others—her father, pipe in hand. Her grandparents, her *great*-grandparents, stepping from the quiet, moving to embrace her.

Mary swayed. “You—you never left?”

Her great-grandfather’s voice was deep, steady. “Never. But only love makes us visible to you.”

She turned, eyes wide with something more than fear—wonder, grief, hope. “Is this your world or mine?”

I took a sip of the tea pressed into my hands by unseen fingers, the sweetness curling against my tongue.

“Both,” I murmured. “And neither.”

Her mother sighed, voice barely above breath. “We argued the night we died—your father and I. I wished to return to Ireland; he would not leave the business. Pride made ghosts of us.”

“But the house remembers,” I said. “Tomorrow, I’ll ask John to stay. If he does… perhaps this place will be a home again.”

Her great-grandfather chuckled. “It always was.”

I thought of the thief on the cross, of paradise promised. *A place of peace.*

We left through another hall, the house guiding us with flickering light. Mary was silent, lost to the storm in her mind. In the parlor, the hush deepened.

And I feared—*knew*—that if John did not stay, if his heart did not echo mine in the dark…

I would have to leave.

And the house would weep.

Chapter 10

Evening crept upon us like a thief, its shadows slipping through the halls as Mary and I returned for supper. Time blurred, dissolving the present into the past—or perhaps the future.

John arrived precisely as the clock struck the hour, his presence a spark in the dimming light. Without a word to Mary, he kissed me—slow, deliberate—as if sealing an unspoken pact. The meal passed in pleasant murmurs, though the air hummed with things unsaid. When Mary excused herself with a book, I asked John to walk with me in the garden.

He did not take my hand as a lover might. Instead, his arm encircled my waist, pulling me against him as we stepped into the night. The garden, suspended between seasons, exhaled the scent of damp earth and roses that never withered. Silence coiled around us like ivy, thick and waiting.

John’s gaze flicked upward toward the house, a quiet reverence in his expression—something deeper than Mary’s understanding, something woven through his blood. He had always known more than he let on, more than he had ever told me.

When he finally spoke, his voice faltered—a rare stumble for a man so sure. *“I may need to explain—”*

I cut him off. *“You need not explain Sally.”*

His grip tightened. *“But you must understand. I love you. I would kneel here, now, and beg you to marry me—but there are things… The house—”*

I smiled. So, he would speak of the house at last.

He hesitated, as if selecting words with great care. *“It is not like other houses,”* he said, low and urgent. *“It lives. Breathes. Mary is part of it, as am I. There are secrets even she does not know.”* He exhaled. *“But I do.”*

A pause. Then—*“It was built long ago, but its bones are woven with something older. My family once aided slaves fleeing north. Among them was a woman from Haiti—my father called her an angel, my grandfather a witch. My grandmother said it did not matter.”*

His voice sharpened, weighted with conviction. *“She touched the land, and it became something else. This house bends time. It listens. It chooses.”*

I studied him. *“And what do you believe?”*

John’s fingers brushed against the petals of a rose that had grown too red, too perfect. His answer was slow, deliberate. *“I believe it does not matter. She was neither angel nor witch. She was simply… more.”*

More.

The word unfurled in the air between us, settling into the quiet as if the house itself had heard it and nodded in agreement.

I turned to him, my smile sharp as a blade. *“John, would you like to see something?”*

Confusion flickered across his face, but he nodded.

I raised my hand.

Snow.

It fell in a sudden, silent cascade, white as bone, dusting the spring-green grass. The air turned sharp with cold. John’s breath hitched—*“I’ve never seen snow here—”*

Before he could finish, I twisted my wrist. The snow became rain, hammering down until an umbrella materialized in my other hand. I snapped my fist shut—light erupted between us, blinding—then vanished, leaving only the ordinary night behind.

John staggered, but something flickered in his eyes—not shock, not terror, but recognition.

*“The house is a vessel,”* I murmured. *“It knows what we desire before we do. It is not just alive, John. It is time itself.”*

He swallowed hard, his fingers curling around the sleeve of my coat. *“Before you answer the question that weighs on me—the witchcraft, the ghosts—there is something you must know. Mary is not my sister. We would commit no sin by marrying.”*

A laugh tore from him, wild and sudden, tears glinting in his eyes. *“Did you think I didn’t know? Mary and I planned this. The circus in Popper Bluff, the rumors of a woman who could unravel the house’s mysteries—we orchestrated it all to bring you home.”*

The revelation struck like a bell tolling midnight. All my assumptions crumbled. *“Then… you’ve seen the children?”*

*“Yes.”* His voice dropped to a whisper. *“And others. My father’s ghost counsels me when the weight of my choices grows too heavy. But the house—it is a child, endless and ravenous. There are still mysteries even I cannot fathom.”*

A shadow crossed his face. *“Sally—I don’t know what became of her. Mary let her into the limousine, and then she vanished. I never loved her, but her disappearance…”*

The house exhaled, the scent of roses deepening. Somewhere, a door clicked softly shut.

I kissed him. His lips were warm, his pulse frantic against mine. When we parted, I whispered, *“Time will reveal Sally’s fate. For now, let us rejoice that she is gone.”*

As we walked back, the house loomed behind us like a sleeping beast. At the threshold, John plucked a single rose—its petals too red, too perfect—and handed it to me. I rose onto my toes, claiming his mouth with a hunger that surprised us both.

Inside, the elevator groaned as it carried us to the second floor. A laugh escaped me. *“So, John—shall I move into your suite, or will you come to mine?”*

His cheeks flushed, but his grin was wicked. *“Does that mean—?”*

At my door, I turned. He stood frozen, watching. I blew him a kiss.

*“Yes. Yes, yes, yes.”*

The door swung open on its own.

From somewhere deep in the house, a slow breath—something waiting.

Chapter 11: The Unveiling

The hour was late when I retired to my chamber, the weight of the day pressing upon me like an unseen hand. My nightgown, laid out with spectral precision, whispered against my skin as I slipped beneath the covers. The house, ever watchful, seemed to breathe around me, its ancient timbers sighing with secrets.

Then—the music began.

*"The hills are alive with the sound of music…"*

A lullaby, sweet and haunting, winding through the halls like a ghostly serenade. It cradled me into slumber, though my dreams were restless, threaded with shadows and half-remembered voices.

Morning came, pale and uncertain. I moved through my rituals as though in a trance, the events of the night before clinging to me like cobwebs. The elevator descended with a groan, its iron gates parting to reveal Jen waiting in the dim-lit hall. Not John. *Why not John?*

The dining room held my answer.

Candlelight flickered, casting elongated shadows against the walls, and at the center of the great table burned a single, grand taper—its flame steady, unwavering. The staff stood in silent attendance, faces I did not know, names I had not learned. And there, at the head, stood John, his expression caught between quiet anticipation and something unspoken, something deeper.

*"What is this?"* I gasped. *"It isn’t my birthday."*

Smiles curled around the room, their warmth tempered by the weight of the moment. *"Open it,"* John urged, his voice low, earnest.

A small box, wrapped with care, rested upon my plate. The ribbon unraveled easily beneath my fingers, and within lay a carved wooden casket, its surface worn smooth by age and reverence.

Then—the ring.

A diamond, luminous and full of fire, circled by rubies that glowed like embers. Sapphires framed it on either side, their depths steady, grounding. John lifted it as though it carried something more than mere promise, more than tradition. He knelt before me, his movements deliberate, reverent.

He kissed my hand. *"Now it’s official,"* he murmured, sliding the ring onto my finger.

Breakfast unfolded in a blur of conversation and laughter, the table stretching as if accommodating not just bodies but the widening embrace of the house itself. Mary sat beside me, quieter than usual, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass absentmindedly.

At last, she reached for my hand. Her grip was firm, her voice steady.

*"Now we truly will be sisters,"* she whispered.

Something in her tone felt weighty, not just an acknowledgment of our bond, but a recognition of what lay ahead.

John remained close, his touch reassuring, and as the meal drew to an end, I turned to him.

*"Can you stay today?"* I asked. *"Is that possible?"*

He laughed, tilting his head slightly. *"I already planned to."*

I glanced at Mary. *"Come with us,"* I said. *"There’s something you need to see."*

She hesitated but followed. We moved through the house, past familiar corridors until we stood before the library’s towering shelves.

*"This house is alive,"* I murmured. *"And today, it will show us why."*

I placed my hand against the wall. A soft chime rang out, crystalline and clear, like a call through time itself.

The wall melted away.

We stepped into the passageway—a spiraling corridor winding downward, past the basement into deeper chambers hidden from view. The air grew cooler, weighted with time’s presence rather than mere dampness.

*"Have you ever been here before?"* I asked.

John hesitated. *"Once. I was very young. My father brought me to a single room and pointed down a long hall. He said it led to paradise… but we never went."*

*"This house is filled with magic, John,"* I said softly. *"Not the kind fashioned from spells and illusions—but something deeper, older. This house breathes time."*

Mary’s gaze flickered with understanding, but uncertainty still lingered in her expression.

*"I told you before, Mary,"* I continued. *"The house is a phantom. Today, you’ll understand why."*

The corridor opened into a sunlit chamber—golden rays spilling across the polished floor, illuminating dust motes like tiny specters.

A woman sat on a velvet couch, her back to us.

She stood, turned.

John and Mary gasped, their hands flying to their mouths.

*"Mother,"* they breathed.

And then, from the shadows, their father emerged—tall, solemn, his presence commanding but warm.

Light poured into the room until it shimmered. Family filled the space—every beloved face once lost to time now standing within reach. John stood frozen, awe-struck.

*"But how?"* he whispered.

I stepped closer, letting the moment settle, allowing the enormity of their reunion to breathe.

*"They’ve always been with us,"* I murmured. *"Love is time, and time is love."*

Mary’s voice trembled. *"You mean… because we never stopped loving them, they never truly left?"*

*"Close,"* I said, *"but it’s even greater than that."*

I beckoned them into a circle, extending my hands.

*"Now, look to the heavens,"* I urged. *"To the Creator—the one who formed time and fused it with the power of love. Declare it now: that we love, and shall not be parted."*

They did. All of them.

The house trembled—just a breath, a pulse—and I knew: it had awakened.

Light poured into the room until it shimmered. Family filled the space—every beloved face once lost to time now standing within reach. John stood frozen, awe-struck.

*"But how?"* he whispered.

I stepped closer, letting the moment settle, allowing the enormity of their reunion to breathe.

*"They’ve always been with us,"* I murmured. *"Love is time, and time is love."*

Mary’s voice trembled. *"You mean… because we never stopped loving them, they never truly left?"*

*"Close,"* I said, *"but it’s even greater than that."*

I beckoned them into a circle, extending my hands.

*"Now, look to the heavens,"* I urged. *"To the Creator—the one who formed time and fused it with the power of love. Declare it now: that we love, and shall not be parted."*

They did. All of them.

The house trembled—just a breath, a pulse—and I knew: it had awakened.

I walked the circle, kissing each cheek, touching each hand. *"John and I invite you to our wedding,"* I said.

Smiles broke like dawn. Great-Grandfather chuckled. *"Is that even possible?"*

*"Don’t you feel it?"* I asked. *"Feel the change? Pinch yourself."*

He did. He winced. We laughed.

John began, *"We haven’t even talked about—"*

I held up my hand, the ring glinting. *"This said everything that needed saying."*

*"In the garden,"* I continued. *"We’ll marry in the garden. I’ll ask it to make a place for us. Uncle Philip?"* I turned to him. *"You’re an ordained minister."*

He grinned. *"How did you know?"*

*"I saw it—in the photo albums. You’ll marry us."*

*"And now,"* I said, *"no more living in basements. The house has room for everyone. Your rooms still await you."*

From now on, we would dine not in the small dining room, but in the grand banquet hall. More cooks, more maids, more gardeners—each waking as the house came alive once more.

*"Money can’t buy joy. Can’t buy peace. Can’t buy love."*

*"But love…"*

*"Love can awaken even the walls."*

Together, we climbed the stairs again, laughter echoing behind us like a song only the house could understand.

CHAPTER 12 – "THE AWAKENING

The moment I crossed the threshold into my suite, the very air seemed to *breathe*—a slow, deliberate sigh that rippled through the velvet drapes and set the crystals of the chandelier trembling. The house was *alive* in a way I had never felt before, as though its stones had finally shaken off the dust of centuries.

And then—**music.**

Not from any visible source, but from the walls themselves—a lilting, forgotten waltz, its melody sweet yet threaded with something deeper, older. The lyrics curled around me like smoke:

*"Time goes slowly… but time goes on…"*

A new song. A happy song. And yet, beneath its lightness, I sensed the house’s whisper: *Remember me.*

I had just slipped into my nightgown when the knock came—soft, yet deliberate.

June stood there, but not as I had ever seen her. Her smile was radiant, her cheeks flushed with an almost *uncanny* vitality.

*"May I help you ready for bed?"*

Her fingers, usually so cool, were warm as she brushed my hair.

*"Thank you,"* she murmured.

*"For what?"*

*"You’ve brought us *alive* again."*

Tears pricked my eyes. *"No, June. The love was always here. The house has stood since 1812—all I did was help it remember."*

She kissed my cheek—a gesture so tender, so *human*, that I nearly gasped. As she left, the music shifted—a playful tune now, bold and bright:

*"A guy is a guy, no matter what life brings! John is John, and I am me!"*

Morning came, and with it—**sound.**

Not the eerie silence of before, but laughter—*children’s* laughter.

I opened my door to find the little boy and girl from before, their hands outstretched, their eyes gleaming with mischief.

*"Come to breakfast!"* they chimed, tugging me forward.

And so I went—barefoot, my nightgown fluttering, led like a child myself.

But this was no solitary meal in the shadowed dining room.

This was a **feast.**

The grand banquet hall blazed with light, though no candles burned. The long table groaned under platters of food—fried eggs, bacon glistening with honey, biscuits piled high like snowdrifts.

And the *people*—

Great-grandparents, grandparents, John’s parents, Marion, June, the gardener, even Uncle Phil—all seated, all *solid*, all *real.*

At the head of the table, two chairs.

John stood as I entered, his smile slow and sure as he pulled out the seat beside him.

*"Welcome home,"* he said.

Later, in the family parlor, I marveled at the change.

No longer a tomb of silence, but a living space—voices overlapping, fire crackling, the very walls seeming to lean in to listen.

And above it all, the **chandeliers.**

Not diamonds—**sapphires.**

Deep, oceanic blue, their light rippling like water across the ceiling.

*"Only the very wealthy could afford such things,"* I mused aloud.

John’s fingers brushed mine. *"Wealth isn’t what brought them to life."*

No.

It was **love.**

*"I want to marry tomorrow,"* I announced suddenly.

The room fell silent—not the dead silence of before, but the hush of anticipation.

The little girl climbed into my lap, her tiny hands clutching my sleeves.

And so I laid out the plan—simple, swift, *perfect.*

Mary accompanied me to the tower, her steps light with excitement.

But as we stepped into that circular room, a chill ran through me.

*Sally.*

Somewhere, in the shadows of memory, I felt her—a whisper of regret, of longing.

*Had she sought love, rather than greed…*

I pushed the thought aside and approached the great oak wardrobe.

Inside—**wedding dresses.**

Each labeled not with tags, but with *echoes*—whispers of names as I touched them:

*Great-Grandmother Eleanor. Grandmother Lillian. Aunt Sylvia. June.*

And then—**hers.**

A gown of ivory silk, trimmed in blue satin, its neckline modestly veiled with delicate lace.

*"Who wore this one?"* Mary breathed.

I closed my eyes—and **saw her.**

A woman of midnight skin and sunlit laughter, her hair a crown of curls, her smile like dawn breaking over the sea.

*"A bride,"* I murmured. *"From Haiti. She came here through the Underground Railroad, met an Ethiopian man—scarred, strong, gentle. They married in this house before journeying north. And before she left… she blessed this place."*

Mary’s eyes shone. *"This is the one."*

We missed lunch. We missed supper.

Instead, we found ourselves in the kitchen—Mary staring at the ham knife as though it were a sorcerer’s wand.

*"You’ve never made a sandwich?"* I laughed.

*"Never."*

I guided her hands, slicing bread, layering meat and cheese. When she bit into it, her eyes widened.

*"It’s *warm*,"* she whispered, as though tasting food for the first time.

And perhaps she was.

*"After the wedding,"* I said, *"you’ll take your mother and father to Ireland."*

Mary froze. *"But—we can’t—"*

*"You can. With you, or with John, or with myself—any of the family members would not be visible. If they leave the premises alone, they are shadows to the world, unseen. But with one of us, they exist in the eyes of others."*

A quiet certainty settled over Mary’s face, but I continued, wanting her to truly understand.

*"When I took the children into the city, they were visible because I was present. The world saw them, heard them, because I was with them. That same truth will follow you to Ireland. As long as one of us is beside your parents, they will be seen—they will be real."*

That night, I dreamed of the Haitian bride.

She stood on a moonlit shore, her blue-trimmed gown rippling in the salt-kissed wind. Behind her, a road of light stretched across the waves—not toward Ireland, but *home.*

When I woke, the wedding dress hung on my bedpost.

And the house **sang.**

Chapter 13

The house sang with the morning, carrying its song through the walls—*"Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh, what a beautiful day. I’ve got a beautiful feeling, everything’s going my way."* And truly, everything was.

This was the day. My wedding day.

Still wrapped in my nightgown, I stepped into the hallway where my two favorite children greeted me, their faces glowing with excitement. We went down to breakfast together, the house buzzing with anticipation. Plans had been made, tasks assigned—everyone was eager.

“Are you and John going on a honeymoon?” someone asked.

John turned to me, his expression soft with familiarity. “What do you think?”

“I’d say we are,” I answered.

“We haven’t talked about it. I haven’t made any plans,” he admitted.

“Don’t worry,” I said with a smile. “It’s a surprise.”

It was unusual, this reversal of roles—typically, the man planned the honeymoon, sometimes together, but this one was mine to give.

The room quieted briefly, curiosity flashing across their faces, but when breakfast ended, the day resumed its hurried purpose. The garden was weaving its magic, preparations were in full swing. Mary disappeared into her room, two housemaids accompanying her. She would be my bridesmaid, clothed in blue satin. June’s children had been whisked away to their rooms, preparing for their roles in the ceremony.

My flower girl—her name was Rose. How fitting. She would wear blue satin as well, the fabric swelling into a wide, bouncy skirt. And my ring bearer, young Junior, was readying himself too, no doubt with great determination.

Phil would be preparing in his own room, ready to officiate.

John’s father, perhaps more nervous than I, would walk me down the aisle, likely recalling the day he would do the same for Mary.

John’s mother, caught up in the thrill, would stand beside Mary. John’s grandfather and great-grandfather, pillars of generations past, would serve as his groomsmen. The family would gather, their love an ever-growing presence.

When I reached my room, I was surprised to find June waiting.

“I thought you would be with your children,” I said.

She smiled. “Grandmother is watching over them. It’s more important that I be here—with you.”

The door opened without warning, John’s mother slipping inside. “A hot bath is ready.”

I bathed while they laid out the dress, the petticoats, preparing the brushes and ribbons that would adorn my hair. And when I stepped out, dried and fresh, they fussed over me the way a mother might tend to a young daughter—hands smoothing my gown, fingers tucking stray curls into place. I let myself be cared for, enveloped in their affection, feeling a warmth I had not known since childhood.

As John’s mother worked on my hair, her voice was gentle with curiosity. “Why have none of your family come? This is the most important day of your life. We would love to meet them.”

I smiled, pausing. “Perhaps someday I’ll bring them here, but right now, I think the shock would be too much. There’s a greater issue they would have to come to understand.”

She waited, listening.

“If they stepped onto these grounds, they would see all of you. How could I possibly explain—in mere moments—the presence of those long past? How could I tell them that this house holds souls who have never left since 1812? That time here moves differently?

They wouldn’t comprehend it. Not yet.

But the day is coming. And when they step beyond the curtain of this world into ours, I will bring them here—if John agrees. I will welcome them to our home.”

John’s mother clapped her hands together. “That is wonderful.”

When the time came, I descended the stairs—not the elevator, for the first time—June steady at my side, John’s mother on my other. At the double doors waited John’s father. He took my arm, and suddenly, the doors swung open.

Rose stepped forward, a basket brimming with petals, tossing them onto the path before me. The garden shimmered with life, roses in every hue stretching toward the sun. A deep fence of red roses framed the altar where Phil stood, waiting.

The wedding march played, Frank Mills at the piano, his melody weaving through the air. The seats were filled—faces I did not know, but faces I knew I would one day come to love.

Mary’s mother stood at my left. Mary, with John’s father, at my right.

Halfway down the aisle, a saxophone joined the melody, the notes carrying me forward.

John appeared, stepping into view. Beside him stood his grandfather, then his great-grandfather, and finally Junior, carefully balancing the wedding rings.

For the first time since I woke in the back of the gypsy’s wagon, I felt nervous. I felt afraid.

Yet, somehow, I reached the front.

John’s father gave me away, stepping back as Mary’s mother moved forward, settling beside her daughter.

The vows—though I cannot recall the exact words—were sacred. But it was John’s face I will always remember. The way his eyes held mine. The way love radiated, bright as sunlight, wrapping the entire garden in its warmth.

When Phil finally spoke—“I pronounce you husband and wife”—time ceased to move.

We kissed.

And then, as we turned to walk back to the house, applause erupted, filling the air with uncontainable joy.

And there—standing with both doors wide open—was a woman with a head full of curls, her dark skin luminous, her smile breathtaking. She bounced on the balls of her feet, alight with excitement.

I knew her.

She was the woman whose wedding dress I wore.

She was the first to embrace me, the first to kiss John—and then, just as quickly, she disappeared into the sea of guests.

The garden transformed—the ceremony giving way to celebration. A band played upon the stage. Dancing began. Sweet tea, coffee, fresh juices flowed. The towering wedding cake, six layers high, stood in its grandeur.

Evening fell.

John and I approached the Rolls-Royce, its doors open, waiting. Mary led her parents inside—they would depart for Ireland.

And then, as if summoned by fate, a second limo arrived—sleek, black, elegant.

I turned to John. “Get in.”

He obeyed, slipping inside beside me. The car bore a *Just Married* sign, tin cans rattling against the pavement.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Our honeymoon.”

“But where?”

“To Ireland. A private jet awaits us. You are going to meet the other side of your family. And so am I.”

He grinned. “Then let’s go.”

And so, time moved forward—joy blooming, peace settling upon the house.

When we returned, it would be waiting—welcoming.

We were not merely writing a new chapter.

We were beginning a new book.

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