The Last Writer Adriane Leigh (story reading TXT) 📖

into his mouth. “I haven’t seen that one, maybe it’s a new release.”

I whipped my phone out of my back pocket, searching up the title as I chewed on another room-temperature egg salad square. “Yup, just dropped a few weeks ago.” I moved my fingers over the screen. “Downloaded. I’ll start it tonight.”

“I can’t believe you’re deranged enough to read an eBook in the most historical library in America.” He swiped the hardback off the table and shoved it at me. “Anyway, who’s got time for reading? I’m taking advantage of every moment I’m in this place.”

I held the last writer’s book in my lap, wondering if this time next year it would be my name in glossy raised print. “Maybe the last writer was inspired by her time here when she wrote this.”

Thax scoffed. “That romance will kill you someday.”

“So says the poet.”

“It’s a term I use loosely.”

“You mean like how Yara called this dinner?” I tossed a dry piece of sandwich crust his way. He caught it and tossed it in his mouth, chewing with a charming smile.

“Exactly. Are you up for snooping around these hallowed halls with me tonight?”

I frowned, feeling the pull of the book in my lap. “But the last writer is calling me.”

“Come on,” he swept the book from me again, flipping its pages, “how good could it be? Sounds predictable at best.”

“And your adventure into the bowels of this haunted place sounds trippy at worst.”

“Or best.” He waggled his eyebrows before spinning on his heel. “Suit yourself, but don’t come crying when things go bump in the night and I’m not there.”

“Thax!” I sped out the door after him. “Where’s there? You never showed me your room, what if something weird really happens?”

Thax halted in the dim hallway, a wry smile turning the side of his mouth. “You plan on creeping into my bedroom at night, Weaver?”

“Ugh. Not unless necessary. This place isn’t exactly welcoming though.” Merlot red carpet blanketed the halls and stairs, dark wood paneling climbing halfway up the walls left room for plenty of hidden doorways and oddly shaped intricacies. The flooring at one point even heaved so deeply at one corner that it gave the visual illusion of a narrowing funhouse hallway, the ornate panels at the end like Alice’s secret entrance down the rabbit hole. “The Thornberrys give me evil vibes; coupled with the dry egg sandwiches, I think they might be trying to starve us.”

“You’ve been told you have a big imagination before, right? It can’t just be me.”

I shrugged. “Just show me to your room in case of emergency. Obviously, Yarrow doesn’t plan on being much help. He grunts more than uses language.”

Thax punched the hidden button for the elevator and it creaked open. “Maybe he numbed out the verbal part of his brain because she was so needy for all the literary attention.”

“That sounds like you know more than you’re letting on.”

“Have you read the book?”

“What book?”

“You know, Lilies in the Cellar.”

“What is Lilies in the Cellar?” The elevator chugged to a slow halt and Thax pushed the lever open. He gestured me out and I found us on an identical floor to the one we’d just left.

“Lilies in the Cellar is a story written about Yara and Yarrow when they were little. It’s fiction, but the jury is out on how much was really true to life, you know?”

“Wait—are you serious? Someone wrote a book about Yara’s childhood?”

“I can’t believe you don't know this, it was only required reading for a push-the-boundaries kind of kid like me. If my adopted mom would have known why I needed a flashlight in my bedroom every night, it was that book. I never slept the same.”

I laughed. “You’ve got to be exaggerating, how old were you when you read it?”

“Who cares? I read it now and it scares the shit out of me.”

“You seem like a guy who isn’t afraid of much.”

“I’m afraid of the truth, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

“The truth? What exactly happens in this book?”

“Your worst nightmare, that’s what.” His eyes danced and he smiled wickedly before clapping his hands together and moving down the hallway. “Okay then, back to the tour. Casa de Bristol is right around the corner—”

“Trespassing doesn’t say much for your etiquette.” Yara Thornberry’s rich voice sent a shiver down my spine.

Thax spun, a charming grin already plastered on his face. “Just showing the lady my room in case of emergency.”

“And what kind of emergency would that be?” Yara arched one dark eyebrow at Thax. Before he could answer, two small dogs slipped around Yara’s skirts before looking up at Thax and me. One yapped with ferocity.

“Carnegie! Astor! Hush now.” The pair quieted instantly before she continued. “A writer’s morning starts before dawn. You can hardly write your best if you have a late night now, can you?”

I shook my head.

“Exactly. Good night, sleep tight. And don’t let things that go bump in the night keep you up.” With that, Yara turned, Carnegie and Astor following.

“I guess we’ve been dismissed,” I whispered when she was out of earshot. “See you in the morning.”

“Speak for yourself.” Thax winked, then turned and headed in the opposite direction to the way Yara had gone.

I lingered in the hallway, wondering if I should take the elevator or the stairs back to my room when a small framed picture in the farthest, darkest corner of the hall caught my eye. I wandered closer, eyes searching the print eagerly for any sort of clues about the creepy origins of the Thornberry family.

Instead, I found a soot-stained old oil painting of two large wolfhounds sitting beside a stately iron garden gate that crawled with ivy and roses.

A chill chased down my spine when I read the engraved nameplate on the golden frame.

Carnegie and Astor - Usher House & Gardens, 1901

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Zara - Spring 1964Shelter Island

“Stay away from the cliffs, my loves!”

Yara and Yarrow paid no mind to my mother, their upbringing clearly unsalted by the flavor