Haunted Legacy: The Windhaven Witches Series Carissa Andrews (short novels to read txt) 📖

I had to take a guess on what just happened, I’d wager that’s what it was. But if I’m to really know for sure—I need to find that journal Abigail was talking about. If the journal is real, I’m almost a hundred percent sure the rest will be as well.

I walk over to my dresser, opening a drawer as quietly as possible. I reach for a fresh pair of jeans and tug them on. Then I tiptoe out of my bedroom and into the hallway.

My heart is heavy and my head feels as though it’s gone through a pressure cooker. Everything is a strange blur of unwanted events—from what happened outside, to the revelation about my dad… As much as I want it all to be a horrible nightmare, I know better.

I walk the long hallway, slowly making my way to the grand staircase. The delicate carpet tickles at my bare feet, and it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. I feel like I could float away—detaching entirely from this crazy, mixed-up world. As I approach the staircase, I reach out, floating my fingertips above the railing’s intricate woodworking. I stare at it a moment, not quite ready to ascend the stairs and face things.

They certainly don’t put the same level of craftsmanship into things like this anymore. For the briefest of moments, I stand there, half-admiring the newly fixed staircase and half saddened by the lapse of artistry in modern architecture. I don’t know why it matters—maybe because it’s something my dad loved, and now…

I close my eyes, refusing to give in to the emotions playing at the edges of my mind. If I do, I’ll succumb and I won’t be any good to anyone. Taking a deep breath, I hold it in my lungs and exhale slowly.

“Come on, Autumn. It’s now or never,” I whisper. Opening my eyes, I head up the steps, keeping my eyes locked on the door of the study.

When I make it to the second story landing, I head straight to the study doors and push them open. The room is bright and airy—nowhere near the dark and oppressive space I remember from the last visit to this room. All of the shattered lightbulbs and glass have been cleaned up and the space is utterly pristine.

My gaze flits over the countless bookshelves. There are hundreds—if not thousands of books here.

I walk over to them, running my fingertips along the books’ spines as I read their titles aloud. With the sheer number of them here, the last thing I want to do is go through each and every single one of them. But if I can’t find what I’m looking for, I may not have a choice.

After I’ve gone through the entire left-hand side of the room and come up completely empty-handed, I sigh and walk over to the window. From this vantage point, the view of the courtyard and pond is truly unparalleled. Even from the ends of the house, there is so much beauty to behold from the autumn trees and flowers bursting with color.

Halloween is just a couple of weeks away—typically my favorite holiday—and all I can think about is how this day of the dead will never be the same for me.

Turning back around, I stare at the shelves, letting my gaze take it all in.

If I were my dad, writing in an important journal, where would I have kept it? Stepping forward, I take a seat at his large mahogany desk. There are no books on the desk at all, only a small calendar, clock, and a few pictures—of me and Mom.

I pick up the one of Mom, holding it close.

God, I’ll have to tell Mom about all of this… Swallowing hard, I put the picture down and shudder. I’m so not ready for that conversation.

Shifting back in the chair, I pull out the drawers, but each is filled with files of various papers and documents. Nothing that looks like a journal. I tug open the thin drawer in the middle of the desk, just above my legs. Inside, there is an assortment of pens, paper—and a small leather-bound journal.

“So, not with the books, then,” I whisper to myself, pulling it out of the drawer.

My pulse thunders in my ears and I can’t help but feel that going through this journal would be an invasion of privacy. Especially if this is all just a big mistake. What if my dad isn’t—

I can’t bring myself to think the final word. Instead, I flip it open to the first page and all of my worries vanish. On the very first page is a dedication.

To my dearest Autumn.

May this guide you to the answers within.

I pull my chair in closer, exhaling slowly. This is it. If the dream with Abigail is true, if it was really a lucid dream, there should be some important details in here. Things that should help me fit the pieces together and hopefully make sense out of all this senselessness.

I turn to the first page, hopeful there will be some enlightenment coming my way. Yet, no matter what lies in these pages, there’s just two questions I need answered above all others.

If everything is true, what was my father doing with that ritual in the woods?

And most importantly, how did he die?

Chapter 20

A Cursed Legacy

I clutch at the pages of the journal, unable to loosen my grip for fear the book will vanish before my eyes. I hope like hell it will clue me in on what Dad was doing and where I can find his remains. The last thing I want to do is bring Cat and Colton into all of this. Especially if I don’t have to.

Taking a deep breath, I read the first few entries. They’re all pretty simple and there’s nothing of value in terms of information about his whereabouts or plans. But they’re still sweet and make my heart hurt. Most of them revolve around wishing me well, missing me and