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The Take Back

An estate sale turns interesting when a mysterious journal appears that possesses more secrets than what's written on its pages.

By Rebecca HendersonPublished 3 years ago 9 min read
8

According to the estate sale’s brochure, the now-deceased Susan Delorme had built the house in 1973, inspired by the romantic French Provincial style. Grace studied the home’s rich but chipped night-blue brick, which outlined the home’s symmetrical round-topped windows with sunburst detailing. The house must have been beautiful at one time, she imagined, but now the sun only illuminated its wear.

Grace searched Susan’s full name on her phone, an obituary popping up as the first result. It used a younger picture of Susan, her deep round eyes shone brightly even in black and white, framed by wavy brown shoulder-length hair and wispy bangs. Susan was a prolific writer in the early nineties. Her seemingly popular series, The Moonstone Chronicles, was about a young magical princess who takes back her kingdom from her evil uncle. As she got older, Susan enjoyed a quieter, more spiritual life as a widow. When she died, she left behind her two sons Archie and Magnus. Her obituary concluded with funeral details, which had occurred only a day earlier. She searched Susan’s sons’ names next, finding out they managed properties for a collection of buildings downtown. Archie had slicked-back dark hair with a grey goatee, while his brother Magnus sported a heavy bleached blonde shag. One article cautioned the brother’s small monopoly in a more impoverished neighbourhood, while another lamented the brother's eviction strategy of kicking out tenants when they weren't home. Many articles ended with a disclaimer detailing the brother's several lawsuits.

Grace's mother had not stopped talking about Susan’s estate sale. Her sons wanted everything sold, even though Susan had collected many furniture pieces from her travels to Asilah, Paris and Pongro.

"You should go look at the bedroom furniture upstairs, Grace," her mom said as they entered the home. "I saw beautiful pieces made from a carpenter in Norway."

As her mother scanned the pamphlet, Grace took in the foyer. A skylight in the ceiling revealed scratches and stains on the walls and floors.

"I want to see this dining room set she bought in Morocco.” Her mother said, showing Grace pictures of a table with sculpted legs and six white chairs with carved detailing on the backs. After her mother left in search of the dining room, Grace went upstairs. She browsed over the furniture in the rooms, including a beautiful Parisian vanity. However, Grace found a lightly-stained Scandinavian teak buffet for sale that she liked. The buffet shone with a golden stain and had sharp detailing etched into the legs. She flipped over the price tag and bit her lip, $250. Grace continued inspecting it, searching for scratches to use as bargaining chips with the brothers. However, when she opened the bottom drawer, it jammed. Gently pushing it back in, Grace jiggled it, hoping to ease whatever had made it stick. A small thump echoed in its chambers. Easing the drawer open again, Grace discovered a black, beaten Moleskine journal. She opened it, fingering the faded pages. Writing appeared on every page—even within the margins. A smile spread across her face as she lightly read over Susan's poems, stories and comments. Her words covered Grace like a warm blanket. She chuckled at the way Susan wrote about her sons: They're feckless gremlins with backbones made of poisoned honey— she was a riot! Another entry had her comparing them to orcs with a hearty dose of pus-filled skin tremors littered across their faces.

“Grace?”

Yelping, Grace spun around to see her mother standing in the doorway. She smiled, but Grace could see the balls of her cheeks twitch dangerously. “They want $10,000 for that set! It’s missing three chairs,” she cried. “Let’s go, Grace.”

Grace tucked the journal in her purse and followed her mother out into the hallway. Barbara, her mother’s neighbour, emerged from the bathroom, her blonde bangs curled upwards with a few ounces of hairspray.

“Diana!” She exclaimed, taking her mother into a long, dramatic hug. “Have you heard about the drama behind this estate sale?”

“Oh,” her mother said as Barbara let go.

“The sons—Archie and Magnus—killed their mother,” she said, gleefully eating up their incredulous expressions. “They stopped visiting, sending help.” Barbara leaned in closer, “they sold the copyright of her books because she spent their inheritance on magic stuff. They found her lying in bed surrounded by crystals and candles—death inconclusive.”

“Wait-what?”

Barbara nodded. “Now they think they can make up millions of dollars by selling her stuff, good luck with that,” she chuckled darkly.

Back in the car, her mother let out a loud shudder. “How can someone do that to the woman who birthed them?”

Grace shrugged. Looking out the window, she realized her mother had turned onto Westminster Avenue. She caught a glimpse of the small white character home with dark brick accents and freshly landscaped front yard. A “For Sale” sign hung near the sidewalk.

“Oh no,” her mother cried, stopping right in front, “I’ll turn around!”

Grace sighed, waving her mother forward. “This isn’t the worst thing that has happened to me this year.” Grace felt her mother wrap her arms around her, and she gave a tight squeeze back, but the heaviness weighed deeply in her stomach. She could still smell the fresh hardwood flooring she had put in herself last year and could see the way the lights hit the white fleur-de-lis wallpaper from the bay window. There was no way Grace could afford to have kept that home, not after losing her job. She couldn't even afford a $250 buffet. When they got home, Grace went up to her old bedroom, which had since been stripped of her high school memorabilia and repainted to become a guest bedroom. She dropped her bag at the foot of her bed before crawling underneath the covers, falling asleep.

Grace's heart pounded wildly in her chest as Archie and Magnus chased her through the dimly lit corridor. Escaping into the first door she could find, she turned the bolt to lock it. Standing back, Grace took in her surroundings, settling on the dimly lit seating area. She melted into one of the side chairs with salmon upholstery, sighing when she caught a woman with thin white hair through the glass doors. The woman gripped the rail tightly, bouncing on the balls of her bare feet. Grace watched the woman's head turn, sporting a wide, toothy smile. The woman beckoned her forward, and Grace moved trancelike through the doorway onto the balcony.

"I have a secret," she cooed. “Will you tear out my heart?” The balcony floor suddenly disappeared. Grace fell backwards as the woman watched her with wide, desperate eyes and shouted, “Will you be successful?” Grace woke, gasping for air.

She looked at her phone, reading one in the morning. An uneasiness formed in her chest as she replayed her dream—the brother's chasing her, the master bedroom and the woman with the deep-set, piercing eyes. “You will tear out my heart the way my sons did,” rang like a sea siren in her head.

Reaching into her bag, she grabbed the journal, scanning the pages. As she turned to the last page, the words at the bottom stopped her heart entirely: It’s my time, dear journal. My only honest companion. You will be my heartbeat when it finally stops. It’s my secret I will take to the grave.

The urge to return to the estate sale won over Grace’s common sense. Quietly, she gathered her things and snuck downstairs. Grabbing her mother’s keys, Grace slid out the front door. When she arrived at the estate sale, the house looked revived, the stains and chips had since vanished. When she stepped out of the car, the whole house glowed with murmuring energy.

Reaching for the doorknob, it creaked open at the touch of her fingers, making a languid, foreboding squeal as she pushed it all the way open. Grace took in the grandness of the foyer again—the wallpaper’s pattern danced in its effulgence, and the floors dazzled with an ethereal glean. Grace wandered into the kitchen, which paired off to the dining room where the Moroccan set sat. No chairs appeared missing. Instead, the chairs looked as though the maker had just added the finishing touches to them, complementing the glistening dark cedar wood table.

“So, you took the journal.”

Grace spun around, seeing Archie and Magnus staring at her from the head of the table. Their faces looked deformed in a sinister glow. Each wrinkle and line on their faces looked etched by a knife, and they wore dark red robes with a large gold pentagram hanging in front.

"Give it back."

Staring at them, Grace knew she should give it back, but a voice kept telling her “not to.” She pulled her bag closer.

Archie chuckled darkly and lunged forward, but Grace jumped back in time. Turning on her heel, she ran through the den and up another set of stairs she found in the kitchen. She could hear the heavy sound of boots behind her reverberating on the floor, and she ran faster. Grace used the railing to propel herself up the stairs. Landing in the hallway, she ran through the first door she could find and locked the door. Backing away, Grace could hear the brother’s pounding, rattling its hinges. Taking a moment, she looked around the room, realizing she stood there before. However, instead of a sitting area, a large gold bed frame stood before the balcony’s sophisticated French doors. Grace ran over, her whole body shaking as she searched the balcony. Standing before the railing, the woman turned around smiling. Grace finally discerned the identity of the woman. With her round eyes shimmering from the moonlight, Susan waved for Grace to join her. Slowly she moved towards the woman, taking the journal from her bag.

"My heart!" Susan cried. She looked at Grace and clasped her hands together, resting them underneath her chin. Grace held the journal out, but Susan made no move to take it. A loud crash interrupted the moment as the brothers flew out onto the balcony, their mouths agape. Susan narrowed her eyes at them. Magnus lunged forward this time and grabbed at the journal, tearing a page out.

Everyone watched as it transformed in his hand, flickering and reappearing as a pile of one hundred dollar bills. Susan looked at Grace with a wicked smile, causing her heart to drop. Magnus came for Grace again, but she flew backwards as a rush of energy threw them in opposite directions. Susan stood commandingly between Grace and her sons.

"I'm going to tear their hearts out!” The woman cackled, bringing her arms up. Bright white light engulfed the balcony, and Grace watched as the woman gripped her son’s pentagram tightly, blood seeping between her fingers. Archie and Magnus’ limbs contorted in odd directions while the light expanded, taking Grace into its arms. A warm sensation wrapped around her as and she closed her eyes.

The balcony’s stone felt cooling and gentle against Grace’s cheek. Still nightfall, she awoke to find herself cradling the journal. Her breath caught in her throat as she opened it up, tearing out a piece of paper from the journal. It withered in her hand, spurting out little tremors of light and then turning into a pile of $100 bills. In a frenzy, Grace ripped all the pages out. A gentle rippling filled the air, transforming the mass of paper into a pile of money. Grace watched in disbelief and unbridled excitement as she stuffed her bag full. Tears welled in her eyes.

The now-empty journal grew hot, causing Grace to drop it. When she picked it up again, it felt cool—Susan? Grace looked around for another sign, but only the gentle early morning breeze prickled her skin.

fiction
8

About the Creator

Rebecca Henderson

Rebecca takes inspiration from her favourite writers like Helen Anne Petersen to challenge and hone her skills as a professional writer and editor.

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