#beatingheart-bride

@beatingheart-bride

One week.

Seven days. Until Susannah Pace would leave New Orleans behind forever, and start a new life with her husband and friends in California. It was a wait that was simultaneously exhilarating and agonizing all at once.

She'd been doing a lot of preparations leading up to the big day: Not just doing wedding preparations (tailoring her mother's wedding dress to make it a better fit for herself, as well as making her own veil), but packing in preparation for the move. Everything was carefully tucked away: The china set and Irish flag her mother brought from her homeland, the homemade blankets and afghans made by her paternal grandmother Augustine, her books, Knox (as if she'd leave him behind!), all of it was safely stowed away in a steamer trunk.

But in-between the preparations, in-between work, in-between the long walks with Philippe, Doreen, and Edward, mercifully distracting her from her melancholy, Susannah found herself oftentimes just...wandering the house, taking everything in, soaking in the memories its walls held, so as to never forget them. She stood in the living room, where her parents would sing and read aloud to her, only those stormy Louisiana nights. She sat in the kitchen, recalling all the mornings she and her father had breakfast there, preparing for a long day ahead. She sat on the steps of the back porch, and looking out at her father's garden, the one he so lovingly tended to from the time she was a tot. She laid in her bed in her bedroom and stared up at the ceiling, resigning herself to the notion that she would never see it again.

But above all else, she was preparing for a final goodbye.

She'd been spending a lot of time in the graveyard lately-more than she usually did. She regularly visited, tended to the headstones of her parents and grandparents, oftentimes sitting between Wilhelmina and August's, on that distant hilltop overlooking the town. She'd leave flowers, and talk aloud to the air, hoping someone would hear her on the other side. Lately, she seemed to be visiting every chance she got, trying to soak up as much time as she could there.

She already had to say goodbye before.

The attic was full of broken things-- old portrait frames... formerly fine China... promises... just to name a few examples. They existed in stacks and piles all around the room, practically indiscernible from the whole knick-knacks and keepsakes. Also indistinguishable from one another were the reasons all these things were kept. Was someone simply a pack rat? Obsessed? Guilt-ridden?

Well, ninety- nine-point- nine percent of the time the reasons were unknown why people crammed broken things into the attic. This time, however...

Beauregard trembled as he ascended the attic steps. He was on his way to add his Broken Thing. He stumbled once, cursed at himself as pieces of wood had to quickly be rearranged in his arms, and then got back on his way. He wasn't used to actually walking up stairs, but he had to be careful and corporeal, lest this Broken Thing be put into even worse shape.

He sniffed, risked moving an arm to wipe his eye, and paused at the door. "Um..." He shifted the pile again. Then he loudly cleared his throat. "Excuse me... I need some help with the door... Hattie? Emily?" He added a mumbled, less hopeful, "Constance?"

Maybe he could just open it on his own--Nope, almost dropped everything again. He wasn't looking forward to this. He hadn't dried all the tears on his face. How was he supposed to explain why he was standing there, a weepy mess with a broken crib in his arms? That he'd let his grief get the best of him? That he, of all spooks, had lost his temper on... on this.

(( I tried with the name ahhh))

@beatingheart-bride

The young teen silently opened the second-story window, glancing back once more, making sure no one was around to catch her. Usually she’d wait until nightfall to make her escape, but today she wanted to take in the city in a different light.

Nola pulled the window up a little more to make sure her whole body, and puffy dress, could make it through. She fastened a chain of cloth to a hook above the window and threw it out, tugging on it to make sure it wouldn’t break off. It didn’t, like always. She swung her legs out and for a moment sat in between the home, and the city. Taking in a deep breath she clinged onto the make-shift rope and slid down.

Once safe on the ground she opened the gate in the backyard to the front and took off into the city. The home wasn’t very far from it, only a few blocks down, and from the many times Nola had escaped she knew just how to get there. The girl passed by a few houses like hers. Broken, in need of a paint job, looked like they could fall apart at the slightest breeze. But she didn’t look for long, if someone noticed she was gone she would be in big trouble, more than she usually was anyways.

About five minutes later Nola arrived in town. She brushed her dark green skirt a little and tucked a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear and started walking along the side walk, simply taking in the bustling streets. She always kept her head down though, worried that someone might recognize her and make her go back to the home. As Nola walked she stopped here and there, looking into different shops. The sweet store, the ‘fancy dress store’ as she called it, and at the end of the street was the haberdashery. As she almost reached the end of the street, the girl noticed someone. A man, quite tall, with blonde hair and fine clothes. She knew him, he came by the home a lot. He knew her as well. Wanting to avoid getting caught, she started running. But since she wasn’t looking up Nola ran straight into someone, knocking both to the ground.

Bloody Mary didn’t often like to meddle; the outside world was not her jurisdiction. But when someone she held dear was in trouble, she had to do something. Ever since she had snuck into Gracey Manor’s attic and met the kind, gentle Emily de Claire, the two had become an odd couple of sorts. She was somber, yes, and quite an unfortunate soul, but she never hated anyone. And yet, she was friends with Mary, a vengeful, violent spirit who left a trail of blood in her wake. Some days she wondered how this even happened, but now this was to be put on the backburner. 

Mary had overheard something on accident, perhaps fate brought it to her, but what she heard, she couldn’t help but continue listening to. It was a woman’s voice, hissing under her breath in fury, and it was coming from a mirror in Gracey Manor. She could only hear bits and pieces, but what she made out alarmed her:

“So, the little doll-face thinks she owns the place...well, we’ll see how long...soon the attic...once she’s out of the way.” 

Mary didn’t have to be a genius to figure out just who this woman was referring to: Emily, the only other female spirit in the attic. She knew about Constance Hatchaway, the Black Widow Bride, but she had never met to or spoken to her. Could this be her voice? And why was Mary of all people hearing her? 

She decided that she would go to Emily and have a little chat about what she heard, clearly, this wasn’t just a coincidence. Mary waited until the voice trailed off for good, indicating that she was gone, before materializing in the mirror. 

((Aaand that’s it for now. Tried doing Hattie in a somewhat different style. 

(Sorry this took so long to get to!) 

Young Randall Pace stared forlornly at the still figure of his father. He must have passed away in the night. The boy held one eerily cold hand and wiped the tears away with the back of his arm. He wanted to say something, but no words would come. 

A knock at the door drew his attention away for a moment. He hesitated before gently placing his father’s hand back down, resting over his quiet heart, before getting up to check the window. The doctor stood just outside, worry etched on his face. Abel Pace had been terribly sick and though the doctor had done his very best, the pneumonia had taken him. 

Randall reluctantly left his father and approached the door. His hand hovered over the knob. He could run and hide and leave when he was ready. He would no doubt be taken away once it was found out that he was now alone in their little house. After a few seconds of consideration, he decided to open the door. The doctor was a kind man. He wouldn’t do anything to intentionally harm the boy. 

“Hello, Dr. Anderson,” Randall greeted the man. 

“Good morning, Randall,” he replied with a soft smile, “How is your father?" 

When the child’s only response was a teary, exhausted gaze, the doctor’s smile fell. 

"May I come in?” he asked. When the boy nodded and stepped aside, he hurried in and turned to enter the bedroom. Even though the stillness and paleness of Abel Pace was a fairly clear indicator, the doctor still felt for a pulse. After a moment of silence, he shook his head. 

“I’m so sorry, lad,” he sighed, “there’s nothing I can do, now." 

Randall stared down at his feet and sobbed, nodding his understanding. 

”…except,“ Dr. Anderson continued, "find someplace for you to go. You can’t stay here alone. You’re still so very young. You should have someone to look after you. Do you know of any close relatives you could go to?" 

"Well…” the child sniffed, “Papa didn’t have any brothers or sisters. His father died when he was younger than me. I don’t know about my grandmother. I don’t know about Mama’s parents, either. She did have two sisters, though and cousins." 

"I’ll look into that,” the doctor said, “for now, why don’t you come with me, away from all this? I’ll handle things and find a place for you. Perhaps you can stay with one of those aunts of yours." 

Randall nodded, gathering his things. Before they left, he paused to look one last time on his father’s face. He looked peaceful, at least, after months of suffering through his illness. 

Everything that happened next came as a blur. The funeral, the arrangements as to where Randall would go, moving to his aunt’s home states away… and they were odd, his aunt’s family. His Uncle Dustin was definitely eccentric, with a fascination with spirits and the like, much to Aunt Almira’s disdain. But Randall did enjoy the company of his cousin, Prudence. She claimed she wanted to be a poet, but even he, with his lack of schooling, knew how to rhyme better than she did. He encouraged her, regardless.