Chapter 2

 

Ainsley slammed the door shut, setting the old deadbolt with shaking fingers. With her back literally against the wall, she tried to calm her racing heart. Her grandmother was dead. Shattered on the rocks below the lighthouse. Like her parents. Like her aunts.

Like you’ll be.

Shaking away the thought, Ainsley took in her surroundings.

The house was quiet. The sound of the storm muffled to her own hearing now. On wobbly legs, she moved into the front parlor, near the glowing Christmas tree. Stripping off her scarf and coat, she dropped them on the rocker and collapsed by the fireplace. Tossing in log after log, Ainsley quickly set a fire, hungry for the warmth it would provide. She struck a match, and watched as the flame flared to life before she set it to the paper and kindling. The flames ate greedily at the wood and soon caught, and heat began to thaw her.

The lone present sitting beneath the Christmas tree caught her eye. Ainsley crawled over to the huge fir and sat cross-legged beside its festive boughs. Tears welled in her eyes, as she ran her finger over the velvet ribbon. She wiped the salty drops away with the back of her hand and unwrapped the small box.

Inside was another antique box, polished golden wood and etched with the old family coat of arms.

Grandma’s treasure box.

Curiosity took the place of her despair. With care, she raised the lid and saw a small, burgundy, bound journal at the bottom of the box. Beneath that was a note and two small velvet bags.

My darling Ainsley,

There is so much I should’ve told you, so much sooner. However, I found it impossible to verbalize the truth, and foolish old woman that I am, though perhaps I could change fate.

By the time you read this, clichéd as it is, I’ll be dead. There is no help for it. The curse demands it.

I must get to the purpose of this letter. You must end this now, before you fall prey to the same evil.

You must find the portrait of your ancestress Claire and destroy it.

I mean it, Ainsley.

Burn it to a cinder.

Before you set flame to the canvas, you must salt it with rock salt and holy water. I have secured the vial of holy water and the rock salt in the bags along with this note. I have never seen the portrait, but I knew it existed. It is how she remains here to kill and take her vengeance.

I have enclosed the family journal, but to paraphrase: Before her death, also on Christmas Day 1842, Claire’s younger sister painted Claire’s likeness as a tribute. She mixed Claire’s ashes into the paints she used, as a tribute. Never realizing, I’m sure, that she gave her evil sister the means by which to haunt us all. I’ve looked everywhere for this painting and sadly have left the lighthouse for you. I simply could not climb its steep stairs, but I’m sure that is where she’s keeping it. I am sorry I failed. Forgive me, my beautiful granddaughter and be safe. I love you.

Ainsley placed the letter in her lap.

Her eyes fixed on one word.

Curse.

The fear and the sense of being watched had been true.

Ainsley sat back against the sofa, the note from her grandmother crumpled in her hand. Suddenly, the rocking chair by the fireplace began to move slowly.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

The floor creaked beneath the chair. The lights flickered and suddenly the radio came on. Crackling and static hissed through the house. The dial moved up and down before it settled on a station and filled the air.

“I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me …” trilled from the old radio.

An antique radio Ainsley knew wasn’t plugged in or functional.

Her breathing turned into a pant; her wide eyes were fixed on the rocking chair. The room got cold and the scent of lilacs and decay overpowered the fragrance of the fir tree. The radio tuned again, this time the carol Silent Night began as the rocker began to move faster.

The baby Jesus from the nativity scene on the mantel flew at Ainsley. Screaming, she ducked before the object hit her. Ainsley brushed her hair out of her face and turned. The statue was imbedded in the wall. If it had hit her head…

She scrambled to her feet, shaking from head to toe.

“Stop it!”

The horrifying sound of laughter filled the room—not loud laughter, more soft and muffled, and no less eerie for the volume of it.

Ainsley reached into the box her grandmother gifted her with and pulled out the two drawstring bags and clutched them to her chest. They were a treasure beyond measure.

As quickly as the rocking started, it stopped.

The radio fell silent, and the room once again filled with the woodsy scent of the tree and the spicy fragrance of gingerbread.

Without even realizing it, the heavy oppression that snuck up on Ainsley lifted.

The sound of the storm quieted.

She went to the front door and opened it. Thick fluffy flakes of snow drifted into piles. Her heart sank, the storm didn’t look as if it would let up anytime soon. The icy wind tore at her long dark hair and sliced through her. The muffled howling of the storm, due to the snow, seemed to make this even more unsettling.

She closed the door and looked around.

What should I do? Should she be the heroine in those movies she always found herself screaming at: the-too-stupid-to-live-running-back-into-the-haunted-house-with-the-axe-wielding-murderer, or be smart and get to her car and wait out the storm then take the first ferry back to the mainland?

The house shuddered at that moment and Ainsley’s eyes flew open. The doors opened and closed, slamming rapidly and loudly.

“Stop it!” Ainsley screamed and tightened her hand on her little bags.

She had a job to do and she needed to do it now.

A shadow crawled across the wall.

The icy feel of its touch enveloped her.

Ainsley knew she needed to put an end to this spirit. Even as a child, she’d always known evil lurked here. But somehow, she’d managed to ignore it. After all, the spirit never showed itself to her.

Until tonight.

With this thought in mind, she stuffed the bags her grandmother had left her, along with her flashlight, into her coat pocket.

Her gloves were still soaking wet with snow, melting and dripping onto the rag-braided rug covering the hardwood floor. She shook her coat and put it back on. Then she tracked to the kitchen and dug around in the junk drawer and secured a lighter in the bag as well.

The lights went out, bathing her in the kitchen in utter darkness. She squeezed her eyes and rooted around on the counter for the flashlight she’d placed there.

“Ainsley.”

She closed her eyes and clenched her fists.

“Ainsley.” The voice taunted in the darkness.

The air grew frigid and her teeth began to chatter. Fear, unlike anything she’d experienced, coiled around her.

“Ainsley.”

The whisper came right beside her ear. The warmth of the ghostly breath and the chill in the air forced Ainsley to squeeze her eyes shut and pray.

Her grandmother was dead outside in the elements. Ainsley was alone in the house, cut off from society—thanks to the storm—with a malevolent entity taunting her.

There was no one here to help her; she was going to have to save herself. She shook off the debilitating fear and frantically felt around for the flashlight. The cool metal light resembled a lifeline to her and she grasped it tightly then flicked it on. She panned the rather bright beam of light around the kitchen. The light settled on an oily looking shape dissipating slowly into the darkness of the corner.

Ainsley carefully crossed to the door that led to the lighthouse. A laugh, blood curdling and childish, wrapped around her before she found herself falling forward after a deliberate push to her back. She caught herself on the door jamb. The power of the spirit was unavoidable, and the danger palatable.