Page 42 of Destined Chaos
Libby
My eyes shot open in the dark room. I didn’t know what exactly woke me, but something had. My heart raced. My breath was loud in my ears as I struggled to listen for anything that didn’t quite belong.
It was quiet in the room until I heard the little girl giggles through the vents like earlier. I slid out from beneath Hugh’s hold and climbed off the bed, grabbing my crutches.
I headed for the door, easing it closed behind me so as not to wake him. I headed for the kitchen again. The laughter became louder as I turned the corner and glanced around the kitchen and then down the hall toward the stairs.
I spotted her then. Her blond curly hair bounced around her shoulders. She smiled at me in a way that indicated she wanted me to chase her before she grabbed the railing and ran upstairs.
I headed in that direction, leaving my crutches against the wall and the railing to make my way up to the second floor.
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m not quick on my feet,” I called out.
The little girl was standing at the staircase leading up to the third floor. She was giggling with her hand over her mouth as she glided up to the next floor.
I took a minute to catch my breath as I followed up behind her. She’d waited for me in front of the attic door, holding my gaze as she stepped backward, disappearing behind the wood.
“I can’t follow you. The door is locked,” I called out, agitated that this was her destination.
There was a click on the other side of the door before it squeaked open.
The little girl held my stare once more before vanishing into the darkness.
My gaze tried to cut through the darkness. I felt the switch on the wall and flicked it on, unwilling to walk into the darkness when I could just as easily shed some light. I didn’t trust this house, and I didn’t trust the spirits in it.
I stepped into the room with my hold on the door. The room was empty except for a single chest in the middle of the floor. The wooden chest looked as though it had been passed down through the ages. The edges were carved in an ornamental design. The Slaughter name was burned into the top.
My gaze swept the empty room, looking for the girl who’d vanished along with her giggle.
I used the trunk to ease down to sit next to it. The lock was sitting beside it, the latch hanging open. I pushed the top open. The smell of mothballs smacked me in the nose as the hinges creaked. A yellowing wedding dress lay folded on top. The intricate lace design was pretty enough probably for its age. I pulled it free and set it aside. Beneath it lay old file folders held closed by age-old green rubber bands.
I pulled those out and set them aside. Beneath that was a book with the Slaughter name written on the outside. I pulled that free and gingerly opened the front cover. Beyond the cover was a picture of my grandfather sitting in a chair. The Slaughter Family Bible was engraved on the first page. In the picture, Dinky stood next to my grandfather, clutching a toddler’s hand. The same little girl that I’d followed up the stairs. In my grandfather’s arm, he cradled a baby in a pink blanket that had my name on it.
My heart clenched tight as my gaze landed on Dinky’s hand holding the toddler’s. “He said he didn’t know about her. Why would he lie?”
I set the picture back in the book and flipped through the pages where there was a newsletter article from three towns away.
Maria Leslie Slaughter killed at age three by asphyxiation while she and her ten-year-old adopted cousin played hide and seek.
“Adopted?” I asked in the quietness.
“That explains a lot.” Hugh’s voice broke through the silence. “You two look nothing alike.”
“I don’t think he killed her. He wouldn’t hurt a flea,” I said as my heart tightened. “Besides, my mother wouldn’t have put me in danger.”
Hugh stepped into the room and sat down. “Maybe it was an accident.”
“Maybe,” I said, pulling out more stuff from the trunk. I opened and looked through it all. Some pictures made my eyes tear, and others made me laugh. But all the pictures of us in the house stopped when I was five. The last picture was my mother and me by the Christmas tree. I gasped at the man beside.
My mouth parted, and words failed me. The man she was looking at with all the love in her eyes was the same one that had tried to kill me.
The fog that had plagued me since returning suddenly lifted, making all the memories return and everything so clear. He was the evil in this place. The one that had tormented me as a small child.
“Is that your dad?” Hugh asked.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I never knew him, and Mom refused to talk about him at all. Every time I’d ask questions, she’d cry.”
“I’m sorry,” Hugh said, rubbing circles in my back. “How about we go back to bed. We can go through all of this tomorrow when it’s light out.”
