The Last Writer Adriane Leigh (story reading TXT) 📖

Walton’s shoes because he thought they might serve him better for some reason, or maybe Walton had stolen them, but deep down...deep down, I was afraid to admit what the two of them might truly be capable of.

I heard the soft creak of an old door then. My blood ran with ice as I waited to hear what might happen next.

Silence followed, until the soft thunk of a door closing confirmed my suspicions.

I peeked through the small sliver of crack that showed out into the hallway. Everything was silent, Mother had disappeared behind the door she’d been trying to unlock. Who knew what rabbit hole of treasures she’d found behind that door?

An idea popped into my head then, and before thinking, I snuck out of my bedroom door and down the stairs, careful I stepped quietly so I wouldn’t draw her attention to me. I let my feet lead me to the only place I might find answers.

Mother’s office.

By the time I was on the ground floor, my fingers wrapping around the old iron and filigree door knob, adrenaline shook my muscles.

I’d never dared to defy Mother before, and entering her office without permission was just the kind of defiance she didn’t tolerate.

My mother had always been deeply secretive of her past and the family she’d come from, shutting me down when I asked any questions. That’d never stopped me though, my need to ingest information was forever an unquenched thirst.

I sucked in a quick breath when the office door gave way easily.

The room was dim, lit only by one eight-paned window that overlooked the south lawn and privacy hedges beyond. The small white steeple of the Shelter Island Community Church peeked just above the horizon line like a beacon. A wry smile turned my lips as I thought of the irony: the governess writing horror stories at the church’s doorstep.

I turned back to the desk then, fingertips trailing along the polished wood. I tugged the first drawer open, Mother’s manuscript in its nearly finished form was tucked neatly inside. Red markings lined the margins, my curiosity piqued when I saw a small note in the corner by an unknown author that read: Great Job—Hollywood isn’t ready for you!

I frowned, wondering who exactly she’d managed to rub shoulders with to get this new book in the right hands so quickly.

I moved onto the next drawer, searching through the pens and sticky notes and coming up empty-handed. I moved on, opening the bottom drawer, this one far deeper with stacks of files and paperwork. Usher House Deed was printed on the outside of one, and the one below that a signed film and media rights contract for Lilies in the Cellar.

A production company called Vacant Lot had signed on to produce, and according to the contract, a screen adaptation with a screenwriter was already in production with the hunt for a director to come next. I was surprised she hadn’t shared the news, but then again, when would she have time to share anything with me? She’d kept all of us kids so busy, even I had hardly had a chance to investigate Nate’s disappearance.

Until now.

I kept digging, pushing files and papers aside until I found an open notebook, Mother’s characteristic chicken scratch across the top in black ink. Below, she practiced one line over and over: I couldn’t stay. Sorry. It was signed in the odd slanted handwriting of a teen boy.

Nate’s note to me.

She’d practiced it here at this desk, probably while I slept upstairs that very night.

I tore the evidence from the notebook, crushing it into tiny pieces and shoving it into the pocket of my dress. With tears in my eyes, I rushed out of the room, not even bothering to shut the door behind me.

I could only focus on one thing. Where was Nate?

I ran down the steps and across the grass to the garden. Pushing through the iron gates, the sharp edge of one of the iron-tipped barbs caught my palm and tore flesh. I winced, crushing my palms against each other as I dodged under the rose bush. A spray of black birds rose into the sky with violent shrieks as salty tears washed down my cheeks.

I cried harder when I turned the path and landed at the fountain. The cool evening air frosted my wet cheeks after a few minutes. I laid back on the cold stone, wishing Nate was with me, praying he was safe, dreaming that maybe someday we would cross paths again.

I brought the folded paper to my chest, holding it close before opening it up to compare it with the other note Nate had left me right here at this statue. Opening them both side by side, I held them above my head so the last remaining rays of sunshine caught the white pages.

They were identical.

The slant of the s’s and the loops in the r’s: all the same.

I cried harder, crushing both pages together before tearing them into a thousand splintered pieces. I piled them on the stone next to my hip then let my eyelids flutter closed. My mourning was interrupted when my favorite pair of black birds tweeted sweetly and then landed on the stone at my side. They pecked at my little pile of heartache, until one of them flew off with a strip of paper in its mouth. It climbed to the top of the fountain, then landed and let the strip of paper fall. It wafted down on the air currents, bobbing and weaving like a feather until it landed in the center of the barren fountain.

Where water once shimmered, black leaves now gathered to rot and return to earth.

I considered calling the police to investigate Nate’s disappearance, but I knew she’d have covered her tracks well. The likelihood they’d believe me—a silly child, she’d tell them—held me captive. Fear wracked my bones now, just thinking of the officer knocking on the gates of Usher. Mother would lose her mind, and I would