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She hands the plate to me to dry. “Of course not. I’d appreciate the help.”
Back in my room, I research every bit of information available on Hawthorne Mansion, finding barely anything. From what I can tell the name was changed from something different around a hundred years ago. Before that time, there is nothing stating the original name of the home.
Ms. Frances brought the book she found after dinner, and I have spent the last few hours reading through every bit of information and pouring over every photograph. I half expected to see an image of Thorne, disappointed there wasn’t.
Remembering what she said about finding hidden items around the house, I slide the heavy bed away from the wall. Searching behind the wooden, frame, I hope to find a link to Thorne.
Finding nothing, I move toward the water basin, hoping to find something Ms. Francis missed. Again, I find nothing. I move toward the ancient wardrobe in the corner of the room. The top of the cabinet nearly touches the twelve-foot ceilings in the large bedroom. I run my hands down the wood, imagining Thorne doing the same. I open it, finding nothing more than extra linens. “Did you use this, Thorne?” I ask softly. “Did you store your clothes inside?”
Moving to the bottom of the cabinet, I run my hand along the creases of the wood. Tears form, thinking about Thorne and the future life that ended so suddenly. I pull a drawer full of embroidered pillowcases out, hoping for some connection, finding nothing.I carefully place the antique linens on the floor next to me, realizing something rattled inside the drawer.
Shaking the empty drawer, it rattles again. How is that possible? It’s empty. I turn the drawer over in my hands, looking for something mechanical to be loose. I notice the corner of a piece of paper underneath the wood.
I pull on the corner, not sure what it’s attached to. The corner breaks off in my fingers. “Shit,” I whisper.
Carefully, I pry what looks like a false bottom off the drawer. As soon as the wood separates, a small leather-bound journal falls to the floor, spilling its contents.
I close my eyes, begging this to be something that belonged to Thorne. I take an unnecessary deep breath and open the cover. Inside, in beautiful script handwriting are the words I’ve longed to see.
Property of Captain Hawthorne Rex
I can’t hold in the tears. Three hundred years later, this is the closest I’ve been to him. I run my fingers over the letters, admiring the penmanship. I imagine him sitting at his desk in the captain’s quarters, writing his fears, hurts, hopes, and dreams inside.
Climbing on top of the large bed, I bring the journal with me. Holding something of Thorne’s after all these years feels surreal.
Carefully turning the pages, I read late into thenight. The pages are filled with short glimpses into his life as a captain. Most are about the weather or dangers of the coastline. I run my fingers across a drawing of a seagull. Each page is a replica of the last until something grabs my attention. Hastily scribbled on a page is the wordfollowed.I turn the page, looking for clues, and find the mention again. This time he mentions that he didn’t trust Smith, the man I remember as his first officer.
A few pages later, I see his name mentioned again.
Smith is a man who will do anything for money—even selling his soul to the devil.
I wonder how it will affect us?
“What did you suspect, Thorne?” I whisper, turning the page.
A ship is following us. Smith tries to deny any involvement, but I know they’re there.
I don’t know what it means for our vessel. I don’t think they have good intentions.
Elsbeth continues to sleep.
I stare at my name written in his journal. “Elsbeth continues to sleep,” I say out loud, repeating his words about me. “I’m here, Thorne.”
Turning the page, I realize I’m toward the end of his writings.
They’re coming. I can feel it. We’re not safe, but there’s nothing I can do.
Elsbeth is awake, and my heart is grateful. My acushla.
She is the most beautiful being on earth. I wonder if she knows
what she does to me?
I must protect her at all costs.
Tears flow at his admission. There was nothing beautiful about me during that time. I’d gone months without a bath, and my hair was full of lice and tangles. What could have been beautiful about that? I turn to the last entry.
She’s gone. He took her. The creature took her.
