A Curse of Forever Read online

  Laurel dragged her feet, unwilling to leave. But she was no match for her mother’s steadfast pace. Mark had already scooped up Carolyn into his arms and had headed toward their beat-up station wagon. Laurel kept her eyes trained on her grandfather, heart breaking, tears streaming down her face with each reluctant step. In one last-ditch effort, she reached out toward him.

  “Grampa! … Please, Mama, let me stay. I’ll be good, Mama; I promise I’ll be good.” She’d hoped her pleas would allow her to stay and finish their camping trip, yet nothing would deter her mother’s irritated strides. The car door soon snapped shut, trapping her within the smothering, stale, cigarette-coated leather interior beside her catatonic sibling. She climbed over the back of the bench seats, eager for one last look out through the broad rear window and, with her fingers splayed against the glass, she watched, helpless, as her grandfather faded off into the distance, his sad smile burning into her memory.

  Her mother muttered behind her, the massive car speeding away as she promised they’d never spend another summer with that crazy old man.

  Before long, her grandfather and the Black Bay Lighthouse had vanished into the night.

  Nathaniel eased out of the deep shadows to watch in silence as the lights from the emergency vehicles disappeared beyond the bend of the only road leading away from his prison. With the advent of newer and newer distractions, he received so few visitors that he’d found himself counting down the days until the old man and his granddaughter arrived.

  But with the events following tonight’s retelling of his own story, Nathaniel was certain his annual guests would appear no more. Heaving a tired sigh, he mulled over the words of the youngest child, the torch in her tiny hand casting her eyes in a terrified glow. Over and over she’d repeated the phrase:

  “Must stop the bad man.”

  He splayed his palm across his chest, its ache refusing to lessen. He was the one who’d been wronged, yet he was seen as the pawn of Satan. His only crime had been following his heart and not his head. Even after so long being trapped inside the tower built by his own hands, his life relegated to nothing more than a tale told over the bonfire’s light, he fought to keep his good name.

  Surrounded again by the empty night, Nathaniel cast his gaze over to the smoldering remains of the once-comforting campsite and he ground his teeth in impotent anger, raging at the events in his past rearing its ugly head.

  “Damn you, Lizzie.” He slammed the side of his fist into the wall. “Have you not tortured me enough?”

  Chapter 2

  Boston, MA

  October 2017

  * * *

  “Yo, Holgrave! Call for you on line one!”

  Laurel looked up from her salad, her fork inches away from her gaping maw, to stare at Elliot, the Boston Tribune’s newest intern, before he ran back out of the lunch room. The plastic utensil slipped from her fingers, clacking as it bounced off the to-go container and dropped to the floor. All eyes glared at her, and Laurel could feel the collective heat from the gathered reporters’ offended sneers above the cranked-up air conditioning. Her cheeks flushed, and she jumped out of her seat.

  Interns didn’t get phone calls. That was the rule.

  This had been drilled into her mind on her first day at her dream job. She’d considered blowing up the memo into a ginormous poster and using it to wallpaper her sister Carolyn’s room. She hadn’t bothered to tell any other family members. As far as Laurel was concerned, family was just her and Carrie.

  So who the hell is calling me?

  She pondered the mystery as she wove amongst the cubicle farm toward her tiny desk, her sensible flats giving her needed speed, and she plopped into her seat.

  Ever since she’d been relocated to Boston at the age of nine, all Laurel ever wanted to do was work for a real newspaper. High school journalism, a couple of articles printed in the local paper, an associate’s degree in English and a bachelor’s in Communications from Westerlane Community College, and she was ready for the big leagues. Or so she thought. Too bad the powers that be, as well as her boss, hadn’t quite agreed with her assessment; she was still seen as a cub reporter at twenty-eight, relegated to the occasional fluff piece or to pitching in with the editing department. Short of prancing around in ridiculously micro miniskirts, Laurel wasn’t sure what else to do to gain some much-needed footing.

  She only prayed this one call wouldn’t screw up everything.

  Grabbing the old handset, she punched the flashing red button, “Laurel Holgrave here,” then searched for a pencil and a notepad, just in case, when an unexpected voice met her ear.

  “Laurel? Baby, is that you?”

  The pencil slipped from her fingers, and Laurel swiveled her chair into the farthest corner of her boxy office space.

  “Mom?”

  Tear-filled laughter poured through the line. “Oh, baby, it’s so good to hear from you. Carolyn told me you were a real reporter now. Oh, I am so proud of you.”

  Laurel frowned at the puzzling tone of her mother’s voice. “Yeah, um, thanks. Mom? Why are you calling me here?”

  The relationship with her mother had been strained ever since her high school graduation. She would never forget, for as long as she lived, the humiliation she’d endured when dear Mom showed up intoxicated, her latest boy toy half-carrying her to her reserved spot in the front row. Nice way for the mother of the valedictorian to arrive. Not too long after that, she’d moved out to attend college, Carolyn joining her after her own graduation.

  “I’m so sorry, baby. It’s your grandfather. H-he passed away last night. They say…”

  Laurel zoned out, nodding and muttering appropriate responses as she processed the news. Twenty years had passed since she’d last seen him. She’d sent letters and cards all the time she was growing up but had never received any responses. She’d believed he was still angry with her mother for leaving the way she did, taking away his only grandchildren. The truth, however, had been much worse.

  During last year’s hellish Christmas spent with her mother and her latest beau, her mother had spilled the news in a drunken confession that still shocked Laurel to this day. Not only had her mother intercepted her letters to her grandfather, but she’d also viciously hid his cards sent to her—birthday, Christmas, Easter … even Halloween cards had been stuffed into the packed shoebox. Of course, all of the cards had been opened, and any kind of monetary gift had long since been spent.

  But the damage had been done. Laurel had tried to reconnect with him, sending letters and cards as often as she could, only for everything to be returned as undeliverable. She’d even had a trip planned to return for a visit as soon as she’d gotten some time off.

  Now, it was too late.

  Swallowing hard, Laurel tenderly touched the worn-out corner of the only physical memory she had of a simpler time. She barely recognized the innocent child beaming at her in the photograph, the unruly strawberry blonde curls held back into two sloppy braids, a gaping space where a front tooth should have been proudly displayed in an ear-to-ear grin, while her grandfather, dressed in his Mister Rogers brown sweater, knelt beside her. The Black Bay Lighthouse dominated the background, its whitewashed tower standing vigil in the waning sunlight. It had been a month to the day before Carolyn’s split with reality, forever altering her perfect world.

  A tap on the side of her low barrier jerked her gaze up to Peter Dennison, her directing editor, who regarded her from beneath a furrowed brow. Yet, as quickly as his frown had appeared, his expression softened, maybe due to the tears coursing down her cheeks. The man’s stone face had melted, and he nodded, stepping out of earshot. Laurel grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk and dabbed at her watery eyes, her brain engaging enough to realize she’d missed something.

  “Wait. When’s the service again?”

  “Well, you remember Mrs. McGilvray at the church, right? She said they were able to get him into a home when things got really bad, and—”

  “
When things got bad?” she said, grief and confusion blending, adding gravel to her voice. “Mom, why the hell didn’t you say anything? We should’ve been there to take care of him.”

  Exaggerated sobs burst through the phone, and Laurel pulled the receiver away from her head. She had almost forgotten what a drama queen her mother was. Almost. Sighing, she gestured to no one in particular.

  “Okay, okay. Let me … let me see what I can do.” She ignored the empty thanks and feigned praise, focusing instead on the last memories of her grandfather: that fateful camping trip when Carrie had tried to burn down the lighthouse.

  Realizing the voice on the other end was gone, Laurel hung up the phone, then stared at the calendar pinned to the side of her drab, modular wall. It was October again. How did that happen?

  “Everything okay there, Holgrave?”

  She sniffled and turned to the scarily compassionate expression on her usually stern boss’s face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dennison,” she said. “I know we’re not supposed to get personal calls, but—”

  He waved off the rest of her excuse, resting his arm on the metal frame. “Kid,” he said, “you’ve never broken a rule yet, so I’m not gonna chew you out. And please, in this case, call me Peter.”

  Laurel wiped away the remaining evidence of her breakdown and sat up a little straighter. “Thank you. I’m sorry, but that was my mother.” One thick, gray eyebrow across from her arched up, and she sighed in agreement. “Yes, that mother. My … my grandfather just passed away.” Peter placed a comforting hand onto her shoulder, giving her the courage to add the tougher part. “If possible, I was wondering if I could take a couple of days to handle the, well, the funeral and the rest of his final affairs.”

  A curious glint twinkled in his brown eyes. “Where would you be going for this?”

  “Lanchester, Rhode Island. It’s a blip of a town on the coast, a stone’s throw south of Narraganset, and—” Her forehead crinkled the longer she held her boss’s gaze. “You have something in mind, don’t you?”

  “Well…”—he dragged the word into a multisyllabic sigh—“I’ve been chatting with the chief of the travel desk, and she’s got a new idea to bump interest. There’s an old lighthouse in that area, isn’t there?”

  Laurel’s frown deepened, and she leaned back, adding to the space between them. “Yeah … Black Bay Lighthouse. Why?” She sensed where this was going, but she wanted to double check her gut instinct.

  Peter grinned eagerly, the uncharacteristic action taking her aback. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “I’ll give you a week to do what you need, in return for a simple fluff piece about the ghost haunting the thing.”

  Groaning, Laurel dropped her head back and ran her fingers through her loosely braided waves, while her excited editor went on, painting the crappy assignment in a better light.

  Black Bay Lighthouse? Really?

  Seemed fate had it in for her. First, a trip back to her childhood stomping grounds, and then a requested side excursion to the last place she’d seen her grandfather.

  * * *

  As the T later shuttled her toward her Wellington apartment, Laurel continued to mull over the twists and turns of the day. Hands folded in her lap, she stared at the chipped polish of her short nails and fiddled with the single smooth silver ring on her index finger. She’d kept her grandmother’s ring on a chain until it finally fit her. Soon, her grandfather’s own band would link together with the delicate, rose gold filigreed loop.

  At her stop, her body moved on instinct, filing off with the rest of the commuters and crossing the footbridge to street level.

  How would she tell Carolyn? Is there someone she trusted enough to keep track of her wayward little sister while she handled their grandfather’s affairs? Carrie did have a part-time boyfriend, but Laurel didn’t trust Guy as far as she could throw him. Besides, who from Jersey insists their name is pronounced “Ghee”?

  Muffled bass beats grew louder as she continued down the hall, and her hand gripped the door handle before she realized she was home. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Laurel steeled her spine and turned the knob. “Carrie? I—”

  She halted, jaw agape at the surprising flurry of activity that greeted her. Inside her tiny apartment, music blared while Carolyn danced around, tossing clothes into a large suitcase. Carrie must have recently returned from a lunch date—Heaven knew her sister didn’t keep a day job with standard hours—dressed in a long-sleeve white blouse, black leggings, and ankle boots with nosebleed worthy heels that completed the ultra-stylish ensemble. With a slow blink, Laurel focused on the strange scene.

  “Uh, Carolyn?” Laurel waited for her sister to acknowledge her query. A couple of seconds ticked by and she crossed to the stereo, dialing down the classic Bowie. Once “Let’s Dance” was not vibrating the windows, she had her sister’s attention. “Carrie, what are you doing?”

  Perfectly styled blonde waves fell in soft curls around Carolyn’s slender, heart-shaped face, today’s fraudulent shade of overly green eyes framed by pumped up lashes magically glassed over with the rehearsed onset of tears. “Oh, Laurel. Mom called and told me all about Grampa.” She flung her arms around Laurel, careful not to wrinkle her crisply pressed designer blouse.

  Groaning, Laurel patted her back half-heartedly. Carolyn was definitely their mother’s daughter, and they should both look into careers starring in the next greatest soap opera. Granted, it didn’t help Carrie thought reality TV was a guideline for life.

  When they were younger, her mother had called Carolyn “fragile.” Today, the world had a different title for it: histrionic personality disorder. Laurel had an even better name for it: attention whore. Still, she was her only sibling, so Laurel tried to be as patient as humanly possible.

  At the moment, though, breathing was beating out her desire toward tolerance. “Okay, okay. Carrie, I need air.” She finally squirmed free and held her sister at arm’s length. “All right, I get that Mom filled you in. But why all this?” She gestured to the overflowing bag, its contents occupying a good portion of the floor.

  Carolyn heaved a sigh, supporting Laurel’s elbows, and focused her neon-green-filtered eyes on her. “What? I can’t let you go alone. What kind of sister would I be if I let you handle all the work?”

  The kind you always are? Laurel pursed her lips, holding back the naked truth. Instead, she rested a fist on her cocked hip and scrambled for a logical solution. “Do you think it’s a good idea to go back there? I mean, your memories of Lanchester aren’t, well … they aren’t the best.” She prayed her words held more compassion than condemnation. And judging from the undeterred packing, neither had hit the mark.

  “Then it’s time for me to make amends.” She tossed in a scrap of a swimsuit and a pair of ridiculously high heels before flipping closed the fire engine red rolling suitcase. “Besides,” she said, “my analyst said it would be good for me to face my past.”

  Laurel screwed up her face, parsing the bizarre comments as they flowed like water from her sister’s plump lips. “Analyst?”

  Carolyn waved off Laurel’s confused question. “Yeah, you know, Kyle. Analyst. Therapist. Same thing.”

  Her sister vanished into her bedroom before realization dawned on Laurel, and she stared incredulously at the closing door. “Kyle?” she called out. “He’s a friggin’ masseuse!”

  This is going to be a long trip.

  Chapter 3

  Voices swirled in the darkness; no words spoken, yet it was not difficult for Nathaniel to glean what was happening just beyond the tower wall of Black Bay Lighthouse. Grunts of urgency and throaty moans of ecstasy filtered through the thundering waves and roaring winds of the late October night.

  It was his turn on watch; his duty to ensure the beacon stayed lit for any approaching vessels as the ships continued to ferry the dreamers from his birthplace in England, across the sea to the new land of opportunity. He relished the time spent guiding the way for the weary travelers. T
hough if he were true to himself, he also enjoyed the company of the solitude. Long since, he’d grown accustomed to his bachelor life. His parents, having passed not long after their journey to the New World, had forced him to survive on his own at the young age of twelve. He’d learned to fish from the kindly folks in Lanchester-by-the-Sea and quickly discovered his knack for finding the sea’s bounty with ease.

  By his fifteenth birthday, he’d purchased his first skiff, and at the age of nine and twenty, he owned a prosperous fleet of ten vessels. Many of the local residents had become his employees and he’d treated all with great respect. Yet, the older caste had whispered of his lack of a wife. In truth, he’d been so focused on his fortunes, he’d never bothered to see to his own needs as a man.

  It was at the May fair just after his thirtieth birthday when he first saw Elizabeth Abigail Warner. Hair the color of night and cheeks as pale as the dawn had called to him from across the festival grounds. Entranced, Nathaniel began to court the mysterious beauty with the cobalt blue eyes. No man in town was prouder than he was, his lady turning all heads whenever they were out and about, and it did not bother him that she preferred not to attend church with him. Dare he say, he was more absent from the faith himself, with his business duties and keeping the fires alight in the tower.

  As time wore on, however, the murmuring at his back grew louder and clearer. Slanderous and vile words such as “witch,” “temptress,” and “demon” slipped past his neighbor’s lips more and more often. Certain bitter jealousy toward his beautiful betrothed had soured their minds, Nathaniel blatantly ignored their hate-filled warnings, and after two years of courtship, he decided to make Lizzie his bride.

  On All Hallows’ Eve, a surprising storm violently battered the coast. With ring in hand, Nathaniel fought the elements and climbed the stairs to the catwalk, practicing his heartfelt proposal as he paced the suspended wooden pathway. The winds howled and the turbulent seas slammed into the rocky shore, yet somehow, a lone bonfire blazed behind the tower. The dancing flames threw distorted shadows against the surrounding trees, but it was the strangled growls and the wet slap of flesh against flesh that chilled his blood. At first, he naively believed the sounds to be those of animals rutting in the nearby woods. A glance over the edge told of a different horrific truth.