The Keeper's Journal by Deidre Dalton is Book #5 in the Collective Obsessions Saga.
Shannon Larkin is forced to confront demons from her past, while her daughter Angie discovers Colm Sullivan's journal in the old lighthouse keeper's cottage. The diary sheds light on the history between the Larkin and Sullivan families, but may be too late to stop the sisters of Mike Sullivan from wreaking vengeance on the Larkin's for sins and tragedies from the past.
July 1995
Larkin City, Maine
AFTER THE MAIDS FINISHED lunch, Shannon retreated upstairs to
her bedroom. She was tired all of a sudden, and felt like taking
a long, hot bath. The rooms she shared with Scott were a haven
where no strangers were allowed, and every so often Shannon
craved the privacy they afforded. Just sitting and looking out
the French doors was at times tranquil in itself. It gave
Shannon a sense of peace, as if she were re-charging herself
with the aloneness she frequently desired. Entering the bedroom
through the sitting room, Shannon went first to the French doors
and opened them. A fine drizzle settled over the beauty of the
estate. She breathed deeply of the fresh air, deciding to clip
more roses after her bath for her tea with Mariko. The roses
brightened any setting, and the woman surely deserved it. Mariko
worked her heart out, and was the absolute soul of discretion.
As far as Shannon knew, Mariko never discussed her work at the
mansion with anyone, therefore eliminating gossip and heresy.
More and more, Shannon valued the loyal quality. She realized
the people of Larkin City loved to talk and create stories where
there were none, but it was also the end result of enjoying a
relatively crime-free town where there was not much to talk
about. Hopefully, it would stay that way. Leaving the French
doors open, Shannon went to her closet and pulled out a dark
beige dress and dark brown belt. She fished in her shoe rack and
retrieved a pair of flat pumps, which she matched to brown
knee-high nylons. She was looking forward to taking a bath and
dressing up a bit. She thought: "I think I'll take a bubble
bath. I haven't done that in ages. And I'll listen to the radio.
I think there is some wine in the fridge under the sink, and my
book is by the bed. I can relax for a good hour." She laid out
her clean clothes on the bed she shared with her husband.
Pulling out the terra cloth band from her hair and letting her
mane flow freely down her back, she walked toward the bathroom
to start her bath. Shaking her head, she ran her hands through
her hair to rid some of the tangles. She headed toward the
Jacuzzi-style tub that was in the far left corner of the massive
room. The door to the bathroom was open and partially blocked
view of the two sinks and the mirrors above them. She turned on
the water to fill the tub, adjusting the taps to make the water
hot. Satisfied by the comfortable temperature, she walked back
toward the door of the bathroom. She reached out her hand to
close the door slightly so she could get under the sink to
retrieve her bubble bath crystals. Grasping the small box, she
straightened and closed the cupboard door. Her eyes glanced over
the mirror above the sink, and she froze, the box of bubble bath
still clutched in her hand. Shannon never knew what prompted her
to look at the mirror, but her actions rendered her immobile
with fear. Her eyes centered on the mirror, unflinching. An
overwhelming sense of uneasiness filled her being, and she began
to tremble slightly. As if she could not believe her eyes, she
kept staring at the mirror, taking in the words and the meaning,
over and over again. The fact that the message was left in red
lipstick with a drawn heart did not seem to matter at the
moment. Only the message mattered:
Greetings, Shannon! Did you
think you could ever forget me? Remember, nothing is ever
forgotten. Our day is coming soon. Our blood is intermingled,
and the time has come. She continued to stare at the red letters
on the mirror. Her ears blocked the sound of running water as
the tub overflowed onto the bathroom floor and began seeping
toward her slowly. She dropped the box of bubble bath without
realizing it, the powder spilling onto the small rug under her
feet. A feeling of numbness overtook her, much as it had the
other day in the drawing room when she discovered the last batch
of roses destroyed in the garden. Her mind was in a whirl as
memories crashed into her brain, of a past she thought
completely put behind her. But here it was again, intruding upon
her, fringing her life. She looked down at her empty hands and
wondered idly what happened to the bath crystals. She frowned.
She remembered getting them out of the cupboard under the sink,
but where were they now? Unsettled, Shannon remained standing
where she was, her eyes going back to the mirror over her sink.
Her sink. She and Scott had their own sinks and mirrors in the
large bathroom, and it worked quite well over the years. Scott,
her husband. "Where is he?" she asked herself silently. "Why
isn't he here with me when I feel so strange?" She needed him
right now, to tell her that none of this was happening, that
everything was fine and normal. But it was not normal. Something
- or someone - was making sure she felt the fear and terror of
the past, and she could not understand why. Mike was dead, for
God's sake. She must be dreaming about the writing on her mirror
- it was unreal. As if to satisfy herself, she reached out and
touched the red lettering. Her finger traced the drawn heart,
and the redness smeared slightly under the pressure of her
fingers. She pulled her hand away and looked down at the stained
digits. She felt a well of laughter bubbling inside her. It was
real - the color smeared from the mirror onto her fingers. Who
was doing this to her, and why? Or was it Mike back from the
grave, tormenting her in death as he had in life? She stared at
herself in the mirror, taking in her pasty face and hollow eyes.
As with Molly's portrait before, the muted apparition of Mike
Sullivan slowly began to emerge. Only this time he was standing
behind her instead of Molly, looking into the mirror to meet her
disbelieving eyes. He didn't say anything, but continued to
stare at her with singular intensity, as if willing her to read
his mind. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, as if to blot out
the sight she saw in the mirror. Maybe if she kept her eyes
closed long enough, Mike would disappear along with the red
lettering. It was all a dream. She would awaken refreshed and
happy, with none of the past haunting her waking moments – such
thoughts were for introspection and sometimes slumber, but never
for conscious thought and waking hours. And then the ghosts of
the past began to seep into her mind, like a fog enveloping
Banshee Point, slowly curling their way through every crevice
and settling with stubborn proclivity. Suddenly, Shannon saw
herself as she had been: young and unknowing, but with a
positive confidence in the future. Her hair was long and black,
her eyes dark and unlined - not a care in the world but her
family and her job at the mining company. Another image crowded
into her mind, this one of a tall, blond-haired boy. He looked
more like a young man than a boy, but for some reason the
description of boy included itself in her mental image of him.
He was smiling, and she was taken aback by his sheer physical
beauty and blue eyes. He was visually perfect, as none other she
had ever seen in her life. And he regarded her with his eyes,
warm and adoring. His face was lambent as he looked upon her
slowly and with leisure. This feeling was so familiar, like it
was currently happening and not in the past. But
there was another feeling from the past, and it was not as
pleasant as the first one. She shuddered, her eyes still closed,
as she recalled the other face of this perfect person, with the
large, big-tooth smile and innocent stare. The second
countenance was sinister and evil. Even his eyes changed as he
regarded her coldly. The image was angry with her, almost beyond
pure rage. It was a mixture of hatred and desperate love. The
odium is what drove the second image along, gave it fuel to
continue. Obsession and steely determination. And then the image
was talking to her, the tone of his voice clipped and forceful.
His mouth was moving. The impression of his lips resembled a
snarl from some wild beast. He hated her, but what drove the
hatred was a mind certain that destiny involved the acute love
he thought he felt for her, and he would not let go. Shannon
came out of her reverie. She opened her eyes and stared at the
mirror. The red lettering was still there. It glared at her, as
if challenging her to deny its existence, but Mike's ghostly
image was gone. She was slowly coming back to reality. In the
background she could hear running water and splashing noises.
Turning toward the tub, she gasped when she saw the water
overflowing onto the floor, traveling as far as her feet. She
was standing in a puddle of water. Running over to the tub, she
turned off the faucets and then stepped back to survey the
damage. She groaned. What was the matter with her? She paused
for a minute, a terrifying thought entering her mind. Was she
like her grandfather Patrick Larkin? Had his madness trickled
down to her from two generations ago? Was she doomed to end her
days hiding in the attic, obsessed with images from the past?
"No," she whispered. "I will not be like him. I'm simply tired
and saturated with tales of Mike Sullivan," she reasoned with
herself. "That's all there is to it." Walking over to a closet,
Shannon pulled out several large towels and slapped them onto
the floor, soaking up the water. She got down on her hands and
knees to swirl the towels around, trying to gather the moisture.
She had to get another stack of towels to completely dry the
floor and the bathtub before the room returned to its former
look of neatness and elegance. Except now there was a pile of
wet towels on the floor. Feeling a slight panic rise within her,
she began to gather the soaking towels, hurrying out of the
bathroom and through the sitting room to the corridor of the
fourth floor. She looked both ways, assuring herself no one was
about, and then scurried down the hall. She stopped at a door
near the stairway, entering quickly. The small room contained a
washer and dryer and several hanging racks. Each floor of the
mansion had a similar laundry room. Shannon dumped the towels
inside the washer, pushing them down. Then she went back to her
bathroom to gather the remaining wet towels, and these, too,
went into the washing machine. She added soap and started the
load. Going back to her bedroom, she decided to take a quick
shower rather than filling the tub again. She glanced at the
clock above her fireplace and widened her eyes. It was after
three o'clock. She had to hurry in order to get downstairs to
prepare tea for herself and Mariko Woods. Once again in the
bathroom, Shannon stood in front of the mirror. The red writing
was still there, mocking her. Someone was playing a trick on
her, a cruel trick which forced her to lose her mental balance
briefly. She decided not to tell anyone about the message on her
mirror, even Scott. She took several sheets of toilet paper and
tried to rub out the red writing, but it only smeared. Searching
in the cupboard underneath, she found window cleanser and
sprayed it liberally on the glass. She reeled more toilet paper
off the roll and began scrubbing. The mess finally cleared
itself, but to satisfy herself it was completely gone, she
repeated the process with the cleanser and the paper. She then
replaced the cleaner under the sink, and flushed the paper down
the toilet. She cleaned the bubble bath from the floor, and
returned the container to its place under the sink. She took a
quick shower. She dressed in the clothes she had laid out on her
bed, and applied a smidge of blush to her pale cheeks. She
slipped on her shoes, and then walked over to the open French
doors. The rain was still a steady mist, and it had become
cooler. She stepped back and shut the doors. Taking a deep
breath, she left the bedroom and made her way into the corridor
again. She closed her bedroom door and locked it, putting the
key in the pocket of her dress. She looked up and down the hall.
There was no sound, no movement. She glanced through the large
windows in the long corridor, now gleaming from the recent
cleaning. The darkened skies and rain seemed much more
spectacular from her vantage point. She stared at the sight for
a long moment. She felt herself slipping away again, as if she
were going to relive something from the past once more, but she
was not ready to go there again. Turning, she walked down the
corridor toward the stairs. She stopped at the laundry room door
and went inside. She put the towels from the washer into the
dryer, setting the time for two hours. She would take care of
the towels later, after tea and before dinner. No one would know
what happened - except, of course, the person playing tricks on
her. As she descended the stairs to the main floor, Shannon
listened as the sounds of thunder rumbled and the rain became
heavier. Her mood was strange. She was no longer frightened, but
she was leery of reliving another memory from her past. It was
unnerving. She was afraid the sojourns back to when Mike was
alive would start becoming more and more frequent, and she was
determined to fight it with all of her mental strength. It had
simply gotten away from her this afternoon, but she would not
let it happen again. She would not let Mike Sullivan control her
from the grave. But how could she control human hands playing
tricks on her? Frowning, she stepped into the foyer of the
mansion. She would just have to be more careful, more watchful.
Trust no one, tell no one. Smoothing down her hair, Shannon
continued across the foyer to the door that led to the kitchen.
She made up her mind, and for the moment it pacified her,
pushing everything else she experienced today into the
background. After she left the foyer, the thunder struck across
the sky once more, bringing with it a fresh torrent of rain. The
foyer fell into dimness as clouds passed overhead. It was a
typical summer storm. It would pass, like all other seasons.
Like all other memories, the past had a way of renewing itself -
over and over again.
THE KEEPER'S JOURNAL ©Deidre Dalton. All rights reserved.
"The Keeper's Journal" may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the author. "The Keeper's Journal" is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.