Chapter 5
The shout from the conductor startled me out of a half sleep.
We were approaching the station. The floppy-haired boy next to me was long gone, the car nearly empty. The train slowed with a juddering whine. A fuzzy, electronic voice repeated: “This is . . . [inaudible].”
If I’d been sleeping more deeply, I would’ve missed the stop alto- gether. Rushing to pull my suitcase from the rack, I found myself wait- ing behind the only other person disembarking. She was short, with blond hair spilling out the bottom of a bright orange ski cap. Could she be going to Roza’s too? The train steps were steep and both of us stum- bled, righting ourselves on the pavement. Outside, the wind slapped our faces. She turned and squinted at me.
“Are you by any chance going to Roza Vallo’s?” Her words were fast and choppy, like she was rushing to get them out before she sprinted away.
“I am!” I’d managed to remain somewhat calm on the train, but now excitement and fear lit up my entire body. I stuck out my hand. “I’m Alex.”
“Poppy.” Her little hand squeezed surprisingly hard. “Oh my god, are you just like dying?”
I laughed at her openness. Her animated face and Valley girl intonation were so different from what I would’ve expected at a Roza Vallo retreat.
“Yes, absolutely.” I grinned. “I can’t believe it’s actually happening.”
“Girl, me neither!” Her warm brown eyes widened. “I’ve been
driving everyone I know nuts. I’ve just been freaking out about it. Oh should we find the car? It's probably down there.” She continued to chatter as we crossed the icy terrain, across the platform and down the stairs. Below, in the small lot, a black car waited, steam rising from the tailpipe.
“Oh thank Jesus. I’m so effing cold.” She beelined for the car and I hurried to keep up. A man climbed out as we neared.
“Afternoon, ladies.” He had a flat upstate accent and a full, white- flecked beard. We greeted him and jumped into the back of the car.
In- side, it was deliciously warm and smelled like fake vanilla. An air freshener shaped like a cookie hung from the rear view mirror, along with a rosary.
“I’m Joe,” he called.
“Hi, Joe. I’m Poppy. This is Alex.” She grinned at me, eyes crinkling. There were faint lines around her eyes and mouth; I had the feeling that she smiled a lot.
“Poppy! Haven’t heard that name before.” Joe pulled smoothly out of the lot.
“It’s Scottish.” She shrugged.
“Scotland, huh?” Joe said. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“It’s great. Really violent, though. People are constantly getting into fights. Once I saw two men walk out of a church and punch each other.”
Joe and I laughed and Poppy leaned back, pleased. “Do you work for Roza, Joe?”
“Sometimes. Not directly. I just work for the cab service up here.” He glanced back at us in his rearview mirror.
“You from here?” I asked.
“Born and raised.” He dipped his head. “It’s a nice area. Pretty isolated, though. Guessing that’s why Ms. Vallo likes it.”
“Have you interacted a lot with her?” Poppy asked.
“Nah, she keeps to herself when she’s here. Her staff—I think her name’s Yana, the one who calls—they set up the transportation when people come in from the city.”
“How long has she been up here?” Poppy leaned forward, grabbing onto the back of his seat with pink-painted nails. She was definitely trying to get some kind of inside scoop.
“I think she bought the estate in 2000? Took a few years for her to fix it up. The place had really gone to shit.” He coughed. “Pardon my French.”
Poppy noticed me watching her. “I’m super obsessed with Roza.” She rolled her eyes. “And Blackbriar. I’m such a sucker for haunted houses.”
“Oh, yeah. I totally get it.” For the past few weeks I’d been focusing so much on the reality of spending a month with Roza and Wren that I hadn’t even thought about the estate. Of course, I knew all about it. After I’d read Devil’s Tongue at twelve, I’d done a deep dive into Roza on a library computer the first week of school. She’d fixed up Black- briar just a few years before then, and several magazines and papers had covered the transformation. It only made sense that one of her houses was the site of unsolved murders.
"You know the story, right?' Poppy asked me. "Of course. Daphne and Horace'.
“And Lamia.” She grinned like I’d passed a test. But anyone who was more than a casual fan of Roza’s knew the story, which was itself like something out of one of her novels.
Oil baron Horace Hamilton built Blackbriar Estate in the late nine- teenth century. A lifelong bachelor, he fell for a waitress in town, Daphne Wolfe.
Daphne caused a stir, first by her much younger status, then when she started a séance group. The spiritualist community at that time considered Daphne a powerful channeler, initially through automatic writings, then drawings and paintings. The trouble started when Daphne claimed to have connected with a powerful female demoness named Lamia. Daphne told her group that Lamia wanted to channel a “great commission” through her art.
The others in the group became disturbed by Lamia and left. Horace forbade Daphne to welcome a dark spirit into the house. After a huge snowstorm, the staff returned to find Daphne and Horace dead. Horace had been eviscerated in bed. And Daphne was in the basement, her body burned beyond recognition.
Most assumed that Daphne, caught in the throes of a psychotic break, had killed Horace in his sleep and then lit herself on fire. But, mysteriously, the rest of the basement was completely untouched, including three completed paintings nearby.
“So you grew up here,” Poppy said. “You heard all the stories about Blackbriar?”
“Oh, sure.” He chuckled. “We used to dare each other to spend a night inside. The doors were locked but people went in through a bro- ken window in the back.”
“Oh my god. You stayed there?” Poppy’s eyes sparkled with interest.
“Nope, not me. I was way too scared.” He considered. “My cousin did once. He ended up falling down the basement stairs and breaking his ankle. Everyone said it was the curse.”
“The curse?” I repeated.
“That female demon, whatever her name was. People said she’s still there.” He cleared his throat. “You couldn’t pay meto stay there, to be honest. I don’t know if I believe in demons or whatever, but there’s definitely some odd energy in that house.”
“Uh-oh.” Poppy sounded gleeful. “I guess we’ll have to let you know.”
The houses and buildings abated and eventually we were surrounded by unending woods. I used the time for some deep breathing. Every mile we were getting closer and closer. Every minute that passed meant one fewer minute before seeing Roza—which was overwhelmingly exciting— and Wren—incredibly horrifying. It was so strange to balance the two, and they both revved up my system, causing a fluttering in my chest.
“The cell service is cutting out,” Poppy announced. “Is that normal?” “Unfortunately, yes.” He glanced back at us. “Real spotty up here.” The undulating line of woods opened up briefly to showcase several long gray buildings. A figure stood at the mailbox by the road—a woman whose strands of loose gray hair flew out from beneath a furry hunter’s cap. I nudged Poppy and she looked over. The woman raised a hand, her
plain face solemn but kind.
Poppy waved cheerfully back. “Who’s that?”
“That’s a nun, believe it or not,” Joe said. “That nunnery’s been there for two hundred years.”
“I love it!” Poppy watched out the back window. “How many live there?”
“There are only about ten of them now, I think. Ten nuns in that big place. But they live here all year round. Have a few cows and chickens. Make some real tasty jams that they sell out by the road sometimes.”
“Aww, that’s cute.” Poppy returned to her phone.
“They’re pretty cut off from the world, aren’t they?” I asked. “They have interns in the summer.” Joe’s dark eyes alighted on mine
in the rear view mirror. “College kids who help out with the gardens. But in the winter they’re alone, far as I know.” He cleared his throat. “They’re actually the closest people to Blackbriar.”
“How far are we?” A new flush of excitement and fear filled my chest.
“Not far. About fifteen miles.”
“Whoa.” Poppy glanced at me. “So we’re going to be super isolated.” “Pretty much,” Joe said. “Especially if there’s big storms. Last winter the people who live out here got snowed in twice.”
“So when you say ‘snowed in,’ what does that mean, exactly?” Poppy asked.
“Well, it didn’t used to be this bad. Maybe a few snowfalls here and there. But last year and the year before, there were some big storms. It took a few days for the snowplows to come all the way out. Until then, they were stuck.”
“Yikes.” Poppy bit her lip. “What if the power goes out?”
“Most places have backup generators. Don’t worry. I’m sure the house has a couple.”
We moved on to happier topics, and ten minutes later, we slowed to turn onto a bumpy gravel path. We’re here.Every cell in my body crack- led with new energy.
“Is this it?” I tried to sound calm. “Sure is,” Joe responded.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
“Oh my god.” Poppy’s hand shot out and found mine. Hers was bony and cold, a skeleton’s grip. We wound through a long, curving path with some potholes that made us fly up in our seats. Poppy giggled nervously. “You’d think a millionaire would fix her driveway,” Joe muttered.
As if in answer, the gravel turned into cement, and we smoothly transitioned out of the trees to an open space.
Of course I’d seen pictures, but in real life it was even more impressive than I’d expected. The Victorian fortress towered over us, magnificent and proud. The doorway was flanked by two turrets, and snow-cloaked ivy climbed up the gray stone walls. There were so many windows, all milky white with the pale setting sun. It unsettled me, like looking at eyes rolled up into a head.
“Wow,” Poppy breathed.
“Beautiful, huh?” Joe sounded proud, as if taking ownership in the sight.
My unease faded, and now I felt only joy. This was it. This was Roza Vallo’s mansion.
This was real. This
was happening. I quivered with anticipation as we pulled into the circular
drive and stopped at the front steps.
“Well, girls, this is our stop.” Joe opened his door and the cold swept into the warm space. Poppy was still staring at the house. "Ready?" I asked.
She turned and there was a peculiar look—uncertainty? apprehension?—on her face.
But then she smiled. “Yeah! Let’s do it.”
Joe had already taken both our suitcases from the trunk, and now he rubbed his gloved hands, as if eager to go.
“Oh, wait, can I—should we give you a—” I plunged my hand into my purse.
“No need, it’s all taken care of.” It was strange seeing Joe head-on after the forty-five minutes in the car. He was similarly taking stock of me, his expression serious. “You two be careful, okay?” He reached out and I shook his hand.
“Thank you, Joe! You’re the best!” Poppy cried, wheeling her suit- case to the front steps. I followed, glancing back to see Joe already pulling around the drive.
“Okay, girl.” Poppy grinned, her hand hovering over the circular doorbell. “Ready?”
For a second, I
couldn’t breathe, but I nodded, and Poppy pushed. A deep thrum came from
the house, like a purr or a growl. My fingers tightened on my suitcase’s handle
as the door slowly creaked open.
The Writing Retreat by Julia Bratz, (Magpie / Oneworld Publication) Out Now
A book deal to die for. Five attendees are selected for a month-long writing retreat at the remote estate of Roza Vallo, the controversial high priestess of feminist horror. Alex, a struggling writer, is thrilled. Upon arrival, they discover they must complete an entire novel from scratch, and the best one will receive a seven-figure publishing deal. Alex’s long-extinguished dream now seems within reach. But then the women begin to die.
Trapped, terrified yet still desperately writing, it is clear there is more than a publishing deal at stake at Blackbriar Estate. Alex must confront her own demons – and finish her novel – to save herself.
Julia Bratz can be found on Twitter and Instagram @juliabratz
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