《The Green Lights》 Chapter One- The Trailhead The Green Lights A Novel Written by Serafina Goodnight Compiled from Material by Marianne ¡®Anna¡¯ Adamcikova Lydia Faire Elaine ¡®Elle¡¯ Faire - The Green Lights? 2019-2023bySerafina Goodnightis licensed underCC BY-NC 4.0 (this is altered from the original text to match the formatting of this website. If you would like a PDF copy with formatting intact, please e-mail [email protected] ) Dedicated to the women in my life without whom this text would not exist- For Vera, For Raven, For Annabelle, For Lydia, and Me A Little Further, Traveller. You Can¡¯t Fight Fate Alone I don''t know the truth. I hardly remember my side of the story- Thinking of it, there''s very little I know for certain. I have knowledge gained from a thousand books, this is certain, but words fade and smudge...windows in a house unattended; and so I''ve had to question my knowledge too many times not to know for sure that there''s little that I can be certain of except that that my library could be filled with what I do not understand. But there''s one fear that I''ve faced far too often: perhaps I don''t know anyone at all. It''s a feeling more familiar to me now than my daughter''s fading face and, like any volatile and ever changing companion, has ruined my life more than once- whether or not it''s true. I''m not particularly good at knowing people- any time that I had illusions elsewise, I have been horribly and tragically wrong- but I have stories about people, those I''ve shared and those I''ve been told. I just go from life to life and story to story like I was once taught when I was learning on a whim how to speed read; only understanding enough to be coherent and meaningful in the briefest conversations. I don''t, however, think I''m alone in this. We talk a lot about how we can''t understand public figures, celebrities, and the like, yet how much we Actually know about the people we think we do is only fractionally better. There was a beach, for example- I went there many times with my own mother before distance consumed her, and then again with my own child, long before she herself was lost. Occultists have a saying- as above so below, and so it was on that day and on that beach: Gray sands divided from the storm clouds above by countless miles of dark blue water and the air above, which led to the horizon where the earth and heavens touched at last. Broken shells rested in the sand in hordes of thousands, and they would cut my feet leaving shallow but ever so painful wounds (my daughter, when she experienced this, complained- I never did) In the 1860s, this beach saw significantly more blood- but honestly, between period blood and accidents (and even sometimes non-accidents), had it ever not? The clouds above dropped their cargo just before I could get ready to go into the water, leaving craters in the sand with their dusty rain like the holes on the moon. I wanted to cry for a moment: when I was young, nothing excited me more than fighting the waves, trying to keep the unbearably salty water out of my mouth- a little girl challenging mother nature to a duel to determine who was truly in charge. On that day, I wiped away my tears and chased away my fears (ignoring Vera''s cries), walking into the water anyway. The rainwater was colder than the summer ocean, so I pushed myself underneath. The pattering of the rain above, I thought for a moment, was gunfire The thunder crashing above, the cannons of the damned fort which gave this beach her name- while my mother silently read whatever book she was reading at the time alone on the rocks. It didn''t matter, though. I was safe in the warm water. You do not see this beach. Unless you lived a very specific stretch of years in a very specific part of the country- you never could and, even then, it looked different when you were there (I''m sure) Your perception of literally everyone you know is built up of images and stories e x a c t l y like this. All this, so you can know- From day one, I didn''t know Lydia at all. I didn''t know what was causing all those scared looks on her face. When I signed her up for advanced classes and saw her struggle, when she stopped sleeping regularly, even as the demons on either side of her reflection shored up their forces without my knowledge.....to think I simply could have asked. Yesterday I was going through her receipts again. For how angry I was when she took up smoking, I never knew she even drank coffee- much less that she took her coffee the exact same way that I did. Willful ignorance is a crime of which I try not to be a victim, when I can. That was the birthing instinct behind this project- I wanted to learn enough to know my daughter better. Initially, I did have aspirations that I could use this newfound knowledge to find her. To trace her story back to the first page, and mark a path that I could use to bring her back to me. I still strive to do so- every day, until my heart gives out and my body crumbles I will search every cloud and watch every face. I will find more and more of her footsteps that have yet to be washed away by the waves. I will call for her, and I will search for her. But it has been a little less than two years now, and my heart also has to accept that this my be the last trace of her, the only history of a cursed life. In spite of this, or perhaps because of this, I will rush into the waves once again to build a better image of my daughter from the shards of her- and maybe find out why. For those of you who don''t know- I am Anna Adamcikova, a full time librarian and a historian of lives forgotten for an ever increasing amount of time. I am, after years of self study and decades of self defeat, a proud lesbian, but an even prouder mother to a lost daughter- whose disappearance briefly made national news. The last thing I want is for her story to be popular, and I am hesitant to hope that it would even be resonant. It''s for me, and for her, and for anyone who knew my daughter, Lydia. ____________________________________________________ The Secret Diary of Lydia Faire (volume¡­¡­5, I think?) September 1, 2014 I am going home soon , that is, at least, what they tell me. The scars from my ill-formed exorcism still hide beneath bandages I''m scared to remove, but they say that I am healthy. The Doctors have performed a collective shrug, stating that my delusion is the most persistent that they have ever witnessed- that, until I ''decide'' to let go of my fantasy, it would do me best to ignore it entirely. And Yet there are so many mirrors, even here. It tests me. Not to mention that I know that She is real- but they repeat that I am healthy. One part of me worries that some nurse will find this diary and that they will make me stay. The rest of me is afraid to leave. Not only am I safe here but, here, I do not have to face the people hurt by that Night. Petra and David......I cannot begin to believe that they would forgive me. They humored me and aided in my investigation, they say they understand- but they couldn¡¯t possibly- . They cannot even know how little they understand. It is easy to hear a basic summary¡­. My curse is simple enough¡­. and to think you can comprehend my story, but ¡®tis another entirely to spend twelve years- with only six that I can hardly remember before this all started - living every word. Not even mentioning mom. She was there, more or less, the entire time. At the same time, I miss home. I miss the restaurants downtown. I miss the pawn shops and the flea market. I miss the winding roads between trees older than me, older than Anna,- hell - probably even older than Her. I miss the footpaths through the trees leading to the Raven¡¯s Bridge itself (The Raven''s Bridge is a Landmark in the North Carolina Town of the Same Name, it will be mentioned throughout and discussed in more detail in Chapter Two) Even still I miss that, too. I miss feeling the cold stone on my right palm as my legs hung off of the side, my other palm being warmed by David''s. I miss the sunset in Petra''s eyes as she and He told me that I would never be alone in this battle¡­¡­.as long as I let them help. And I miss them. Perhaps the looks I saw when they visited me here: seeing the bandages, with oceans of sadness held just in the corners of their eyes... turning the fluorescent lights of the institute into stars reflecting off of eyes that I love four of very few reflective surfaces in which I have never once seen Her face.. perhaps those looks will have faded once I come home. Even having read those words, knowing that perhaps the sadness will remain until She takes them from me, I am somehow still able to hope. In considerably fairer news- my doctors have cleared me to get on my hormone therapy- It is impossible for me to say if they think that transition will cure my ¡®delusion¡¯ or if I have simply proven that my gender dysphoria is disconnected from¡¯t. Regardless,. no more walking in and out of my closet. No more locking it so no one can see the parts of me that I fear. ¡®Tis affirming. I was scared, too. I have seen a woman in my reflection for so long, it was hard not to fear the woman in my heart. But photos show that the hormones that were floating me upstream have, for better and for worse, made my visage diverge from her own. I am my own woman. I try, from time to time, to be proud. A lesser woman may have decided to not emerge from the darkness, knowing that hiding would fundamentally change her path and perhaps even save her life maybe there will never have been any choice at all. I keep returning to the last truly happy moment before that dark Night, still clear as day Sunset at the Beach, sitting on the rocks as the skies turned a deep red David holds my hand as he tells me to watch the horizon for a flash of green which marks the ferry''s passage to the place where we all must go. The dying light keeps me warm and reminds me that, come what may, there are and have always been moments and happenings that make the pages before the end worth reading. I love you, Lydia,, perhaps I have never loved anyone as I do you, whatever is printed on the remaining pages nothing can change that. ~Signed:Lydia Faire ______________________________________________________ An Account of the Massacre at Weaver''s Creek Chapel It is July 4th in the year of our lord 1864, and I, Mason Shaw, have just witnessed a miracle. A portrait, for those who were without- most of our town the poor and the wealthy, the just and the unjust This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. anyone not already swallowed up by the Vile War Were gathered together for worship at the Chapel down Weaver''s Creek Way. Anyone who has been reading these leaflets knows that I am infrequently pious...but something told me to be there this day. There I was! Sitting in the pews- the beautiful and expensive stained glass windows painted my face the same as my neighbors, rendering the people of our fair town a kaleidoscope of color representing the image of Jesus- sprouting wings to take flight. On the stage stood our Good Father Whale, all alone with nothing before him. Save to his right-hand side, a singular silver Mirror with a small stool and an easel as silent companions. As I walked in, the sun caught the Mirror''s face for a moment and struck me blind briefly. So brilliant and so clear was this Mirror. Father''s sermon was, on this day, a musing on what we all must do during these times of torment. when so many have died already that all of us walk into this beauteous place of worship with hollowed eyes, knowing not what tomorrow will bring. He told us that we must keep our faith, and that God would show us the path to glory. He then began the prayer for those who were chosen or deemed to be more needy of grace than other folk. Quietly he said ''And we all must pray for Donovan Sweet- whose sons were all lost in the war. His wife is here now- many of us have seen him in his rage and in his doubt. But let us have a moment of silence for Donovan Sweet and his sons.'' We Prayed for Him. My mind, as it does, wandered during that long moment of silence. I was thinking of the color and the light- When Father Whale coughed, and straightened himself, and took out a piece of paper and unrolled it like a scroll and told us all that it was his pleasure to present to us what he believed to truly be a young woman given to us from God. ''It has found my ears that some of you have met this young prophet already. I wish to thank all of you within that group, and the young Elaine''s mother Annabelle for bringing her to me, as I would not have believed had I not seen with my own eyes.'' A hush fell, for only just a moment, before a humming was heard from he back of the Church. I believe it may have been those already faithful to Her Power, raising a chorus to herald her coming. It could have been from beyond. ''Well, she is among us today- and is willing to show all who have yet to see her light the way into the future. Passed down to her by one of God''s very own angels. Is she ready, Annabelle? Annabelle Faire, everyone. Daughter of the Founder of this great Town.'' And just so, with floating elegance, rose Annabelle. She was dressed like an angel herself, draped white fabric covering all but her head and face. She went to the back of the Holy Stage and disappeared for a moment. Silence gripped us all, tightly. When another angelic figure emerged, with a momentum almost as if pushed. Where Annabelle''s hair was well groomed, Elaine Faire''s hair was wild and dark, her eyes darker, sunken into an otherwise lovely face- pale and fair. She walked, slowly, as if walking on broken glass towards the chair by the mirror. Her lips parted with a faint hiss as she spoke- each word like a chord slashed from some magic violin: with great effort and with a harmonious tune ''Thank you all for being here'' with a grace far beyond her Thirteen years on God''s Earth ''I have been given, by His Grace, a gift. Through this mirror, and any mirror so blessed, I can see the image of an angel'' a smile curled at the edge of her lips ''and not just any angel. This is an angel of time, who has lived years untold.He shows me such beautiful things and is willing to help me to help my friends and fellow believers'' She faced us again, ''Will any who wish to be shown the way line up on the stage?'' I and many did as she said. The First was Thomas Bellamy, a man who had recently happened upon a fair sum of money, but who....we are so sorry Thomas....most in the town believed he would toss it away on drink or dreams. He approached humbly enough. Elaine looked at him ''Have you faith?'' ''Some'' Quoth He ''though I am unsure'' ''It''s natural. We all believe, in time. Stand in the Light'' Elaine scanned Thomas more fully, and then looked into the mirror, straining her eyes to look at what only she could see: She touched her paintbrush into a small pool of green paint and began striking at the canvas before her. We all stood, silent, as she worked furious strokes of green, then a deep golden yellow. for some time. Then the precious one bowed her head ''Thank you for being patient, Thomas'' she turned the Easel. On it was a House, not like any house I had ever seen before. Brick and Wood and Glass all bundled together as every house should be, but glossier- somehow a more succinct summary of what comes to mind when one thinks of ''A House.'' This house sat on a clean patch of grass in the clearing of a verdant forest, much like the ones we walked through to be there this day. ''There is a patch of land that you covet, is there not- Thomas Bellamy? A small patch a smaller number of paces off of Weaver''s Creek. My angel used the phrase "Bellamy''s Brook?"'' Thomas stood there in stunned silence for a moment, then asked where she had heard this. ''My angel, I tell you this in truth- My holy patron has said that you will succeed in purchasing that clearing and that the land will remain in your family''s name for more than a century to come. This painting'' She rose and cradled her prophecy in her arms ''is of the home that will be built there. On land where you will lay and lie with your loving wife and children'' She handed the painting to the man. Again the rapt silence save for the humming, as Thomas looked at the painting: his eyes glittering like stars. I had never seen this man cry, not even once before. ''Bellamy''s Brook'' Thomas croaked the words before weeping openly. Elaine put her hand on his shoulder ''has been a dream that I have told to so few people for fear it would never come true. I will cherish this, come what may....thank you, Ms Faire.'' The next was Mrs. Aemeilia Holt, a name not unfamiliar to our readers. She writes in regularly with her thoughts and concerns ''bout the town. Both her son (barely a man) and her Husband were playing their part. ''I have been all alone in our tiny little home without my boys for so long that I no longer see a future for myself- could you maybe show me?'' ''Have ye faith?'' ''I really want to, miss'' And again Elaine began to paint- in reds and browns, greens and greys. ''May I show you this in confidence, Mrs. Holt?'' Mrs Holt stepped forward and viewed the painting and began wailing. ''I knew it, I knew it.'' ''But, look-'' Elaine held out her hands and took them into her own and showed her where ''-You will begin again. God will provide.'' and then bid her to leave the stage with a smile. I was thoroughly absorbed by the moment at this point, but in any case I was next.I stepped before her and I felt a shortness of breath. What could I say? What would I do? ''What is your name, once more?'' ''My name,'' I says ''Is Mason Shaw'' She again asked her question, and I entreated her to make me believe. She looked into the mirror- and drew closer to more clearly view the image. Elaine let out a happy sigh as she turned to me, smiling. The darling moved swiftly, almost in flight, and she hugged me modestly before facing the both of us to the worshippers in the Chapel. ''This man will help to tell my story- Our story'' Elaine chimed, brighter than the sun. She took out a new canvas and wrote on it, in plain black ink only a few words. I swear to you- God and the Lady¡¯s eyes above - those words were ''It is July 4th in the year of our lord 1864, and I, Mason Shaw, have just witnessed a miracle.'' Next was L(the rest of this area is blank, struck out very deliberately with dark green ink) Then it happened. Mrs. Mary Sweet stepped up to the front of the line and she said that she absolutely had faith, but that she also had fears. I will spare her the details of what she told us about her husband, and the shadow that hung over her life. That is her private business. But when she told Elaine I saw a flash of Horror cross that Angel''s eyes and I, too, felt afraid. ''Momma, please'' Elaine said to Annabelle ''it''s happening'' But the Matriarch stood silent. ''Please'' Mrs. Sweet asked. And Elaine swallowed her tears and picked up her brush. Our Elaine looked deep into her mirror of truth. For a moment, I could see her whisper something unheard before saying ''This is the last- I promise'' Black and Red and Blue and Green, Gray and White started swirling onto canvas, overwriting the words that I now knew I must take down. She showed us the painting. There was now chatter and gasping among the crowd. The details were faint from my place, now back at my seat in the pews - But I recognized the image of Jesus, his wings eclipsing the sun as they did on the window of that holy place and I knew the color of blood. ''¡¯I¡¯m begging you- you have to get out of here. Just leave now'' Elaine pleaded towards us gathered in worship. ''O, God- save these people. Spare them and spare me.'' Mrs. Sweet was taken aback, she cowered, but she did not move. She tried to take the portrait away from Elaine''s easel, And Elaine moved to stop her. ''Please! DON¡¯T'' she cried, but Mrs. Sweet was able to pry it away. So Elaine crawled back to the Mirror ''Help me. Anything. Please'' I thought I could hear a door opening, but I could not turn away from the stage. ''Everyone leave! If you don''t...'' ''What is this?'' Mrs. Sweet was staring at the painting, open mouthed. There were the startings of cries from the audience. ''Something very bad is about to happen. There might still be time..'' and suddenly a shout was heard ''W I T C H'' And finally my gaze broke away in time for me to turn to see Mr. Sweet step on the stage. ''Can you not see that this is devilry? Witchcraft? I could see Elaine form the words ¡®I¡¯m so sorry¡¯ towards sweet Mary Sweet ¡®wickedness and superstition like this has cost me all I had. I will not be party to it. All of you should burn for listening to this devil¡¯s words'' quoth Donovan Then I saw Mr. Sweet raise the axe and bring it down on his poor wife''s head. Her life poured from the gash, covering Elaine''s white gown. He brought the blade up again, it must have been as high as he could lift it...almost reaching heaven, before bringing it down again on Elaine''s shoulder. Her poor screams a symphony of pain. He kicked her down to separate her body from the ax. He kept shouting more and more, with very little of it being understandable in the slightest, but he went down into the crowd and started swinging his ax again and again. I had never seen such violence in my life before this day. I was far enough away by the grace of God, but I was still frozen in place. Blood rained, as Donovan Sweet carved into my neighbors And only by her grace did we survive. Elaine had crawled her way back to the Mirror. ''Save us'' I knew I could hear her say though it was naught but a whisper. Our attacker was only stopped by our Lady''s cry. She cried out names. Names of the people in the audience that morning. She kept yelling ''All but these will survive- have Faith'' The screams were now deafening. ''Please, God give strength to those of us who will carry on and forgive me for what I must do'' I started to move. Elaine did as well, letting out a deafening cry ¡®IF YOU WISH TO DO THIS, COME AFTER ME- LET THEM ALONE¡¯ to get Mr. Sweet''s attention before running to the back rooms of the church. I, and anyone else who could move started running to the door. I climbed over the pews. I stumbled. I fell. My face was now bleeding, but I and many others finally reached the sunlight again outside again. It was stunningly quiet outside. Annabelle Faire was there, and she started looking after the sufferers. Words started as whispers but did not rise beyond a mumble. ''I don''t understand'' was all I could say ''I just don''t understand'' ''It''s not for you to understand. It''s on you to survive, and to do your part, if not for the ones we lost here today- For Her'' ''The things she said. Did she know?'' I asked Annabelle- ¡®The ink was dried- not a single word can be changed.¡¯ Mrs. Faire took to finishing up a bandage for my head. She then moved from person to person, cleaning up the damage. I started back towards the door of the church now looming titanic in front of me. I leaned my head against the wood for a moment I did not dream to hope But I believed. I pushed open the door. It was dark, just like in Elaine''s painting. Rivers of red began to gather into puddles. The sun caught once again on Elaine''s Mirror, illuminating the room ever so slightly. Elaine was standing on the stage next to it, her robes now patterned with crimson with a shard of glass in her hand that, too, shone in the sun. ''It''s over'' quoth she ''It''s done'' Donovan Sweet had tried after her, but Our Angel could not be cut from her course- and she by the grace of God defended us. More came in after me, flowing past me as if I were an island in the river. Elaine took us all in her arms, one by one. I thanked her quietly in stunned silence. And then I fell to my knees. It is by her grace and strength that we live this day. I have been unable to rest- needing urgently to reach this desk to take this down. My Heart Goes out to the Victims of Donovan Sweet''s Cruel Act. Mary Sweet Arthur Wells Sylvia Tyler Margaret Scott Heather Macleod Athena Rose Jonathan Holloway Sarah Grant And Donovan Sweet- May they all find peace. There will be a Vigil by the Raven''s Bridge on Friday Night- if she has her strength, the Lady Elaine Faire and her Mother will be in attendance. We all will have words. Please, God give strength to those of us who will carry on and forgive us for what we must do. (the following was found on a small, delicate piece of paper between this and the next page) November 30, 1876 L, I know that you''re reading this. I saw it happen years ago, I wonder what you''ve done with that advantage. I went too far, this time, my love. It wasn''t for mom, oddly enough...no one knew about her. No, the serpent of fire that travels up the hill is for a woman of no consequence bearing your name. She used to be a servant (I know how much you hate the word Slave ) of ours, but she was meddlesome. I have excised her name from the remainder of this hidden history (I¡¯m certain that these pages remain hidden before and after you first read them, hallelujah) because I need for it to be yours alone, without my influence. At any rate, she was killed. And it was for her that the serpent travels up- across Weaver''s Creek, closer now. I¡¯m running out of time. I¡¯ll soon place this into the hands of the only person I truly trust. I know not its path after that, except that it leads to you. I¡¯ve included my side of the story- in reverse, of course- within these pages with a few hidden without. For you, who was there for so much, but who could never hear my voice or know my true thoughts, this should illuminate your way. Do you remember when we first met? All those years ago? You, awkwardly floating in your grandmother''s dancing dress. Remember all the wonderful things you showed me? Some days I wish I had never investigated those infernal green lights all those years ago. Most days, and most nights, these days I know that there was never any other path except that one up the stairs to that first moment. Once I¡¯m finished, and my history is out of my hands, I¡¯ll go upstairs to try one last time to look and see your face. I suppose that will only be shortly before all my mirrors will shatter and the fire will take me...destiny carved in stone from the moment my Angel of Time told me of my Fate. I hope ¡®gainst all hope that I failed in more than one way in that night. I pray (I''ve never truly prayed until this, For You) that your advantage over me has lit your way to a happier end. O God, I pray. I have wept every day since I took you away from me, and will weep every day between now and then: That eclipse of our existence in which I came out the sole survivor but not the victor. It is probably too late, even now, to ask you for forgiveness- especially for the things that are still to come, For You. Anyway, for now, I love you. I¡¯ll always be your Sister Elle. Chapter Two- Home (Foreword to Raven¡¯s Bridge (2005), Marianne Faire.) It has been eight years since I''ve seen even one page of the story you''re now reading The last time I saw these words, they were in pieces on the floor of my childhood bedroom, torn apart out of fear, if I''m being truly honest. I have been stuck in this town for too long, all those years: that is, I have continued to live in Raven''s Bridge and have continued to try to find more of its secrets. What you see before you is nothing less than my first child, since then I''ve stopped being a child myself and had a real child of my own But when this one was returned to me, stitched together from stories that all but I- and perhaps some that have now long gone - have forgotten about, God help Me, I forgot all about my son for a moment. I forgot everything except for those trees, standing huddled in endless chaotic lines down the hill , past markers carved into them by girls who''d lived and fought and loved there then but haven''t been seen in years, and down to the river and, above the river, two towers of solid stone bridged by a slab of granite that had fallen from one of them centuries before I was born but slept snugly between them. Nothing else occupies my mind as I read these resurrected pages. This resuscitated memory. Nothing but the haunted stone, and the endless natural graveyard of living wooden headstones for people I''m no longer sure ever lived at all. ___________________________________________________________________________ When I started writing Raven¡¯s Bridge in the Autumn of 1994, we were already leaving the age of vanishing. Now, in the age of the internet- the place you are likely reading these words at this very moment- it is almost impossible to disappear without a trace. Cameras are everywhere, owing to events and changes in society that I and those before me could never have foreseen. As such, there are enough traces of Lydia to make a portrait approaching verisimilitude. Unfortunately, we also now live in an age where images have gotten even better at lying. We can take images out of their original time and place and surgically remove their context Now we can even craft images wholesale from the fragments of others. They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, so one must understand the power of the right image at the right time (or the wrong image and time) and temper their belief of the presentation of reality by outside sources with motives- because now even if there are photos, there is no proof. Even the smile that I see in the images that I downloaded from Lydia¡¯s computer or social media accounts before they were removed could be a lie, and that context may be the key to understanding what happened. So. Who was Lydia? I will go into the depths of our history in due time, but I mean: who was she when we lost her? (Descriptive text: an image of a woman in her early twenties, smiling with her mouth but not with her eyes. Her hair has been dyed blue, but has twirls of her original dark brunette throughout. Her teeth are somewhat yellowed, but straight- it is a beautiful smile by most anyone¡¯s standards. An arm can be seen around her shoulder, but the image has been cropped to remove the other person. A caption in the top right says that the image was posted by David Alexander Ash.) Lydia Faire was a lot like many girls in her generation. She wasn¡¯t born into the role, but took to it as soon as she became truly aware that it was an option. She was, for as long as I can remember, absolutely enamored with music. God, the music. Lydia was a fair singer, but her skill lay mainly on the piano and violin. She worked hard, and studied harder. The phrase that opens this work is from one of her few compositions with words: Traveller. The song itself tells me all that I need to know about her mindspace when she was studying up north. It¡¯s difficult for me to know much about her lifestyle while she was at college, she did not have many friends and the ones who she was actively close to are intensely difficult to track down and speak with. From her personal effects, particularly a small photo album full of tickets, I learned that she frequented a small theater that would show movies that had been out of cinemas for several months. She did not discriminate, watching pretty much whatever was in the theater when she was there. And there were multiple brochures from the campus transgender support group, where I can only hope that she found a sense of community and friendship to match what she had when she was a child. The rest is just a series of holes where Lydia should be. People who studied with her in the music program thought of her as deeply troubled- she had infrequent outbursts, which was typical of what anyone who knew her could tell you. A few people noted that when she did speak she was very insightful, but that her sense of humor was greatly underdeveloped- she did not react well to humor, especially humor surrounding herself or her presentation. Online, she posted an immense amount of selfies during her first year, showing that Lydia had gained a terrific amount of skill with makeup. Mostly standard stuff, she made posts that suggested that she had put in a genuine attempt at dating while she was there. One of her electives, meanwhile, was a class for makeup effects, and she posted a number of pics of her as characters or animals or monsters. The last of such posts was a halloween post in which she had dressed in a vintage dress and corset, with half of her face covered in a particularly dramatic prosthetic making her look like she had been burned alive. Along with this was the caption ¡®guess who?¡¯ Comments on the post clarify that no one was able to. After that, her posting almost stops entirely, with only posts on May 2nd of each year where she would share an image from the game that she and her friends had made when she was still in high school, an adaptation of a film that she and ¡®The Girls¡¯ or ¡®The Driftwood Girls¡¯ (sharing the name of the film itself) watched adapted using the framework of a card game that they had developed among themselves. May 2nd was a day they had assigned importance to, as it was the day that the main character of the film washed ashore. On the subject of The Girls, Lydia was living with two of the members of her friend group who had happened to be in the city on unrelated business- Mallory Hayward and Tara Blessed. I was able to reach Mallory (now more widely known by her pseudonym Guenevere) while doing research for this project. She was apologetic, saying that she had fallen out of contact with anyone back East during her own journey (noting that it was ¡®just me and Tara¡¯ for a significant period of time). She was sweet, once I was able to get past her agent and staff, even dedicating a performance of Traveller at a show in some town nobody would remember the name of. She noted that she (and by extension Tara) were out of the house most of the time, so Lydia ended up having the whole apartment to herself for significant periods of time. ¡®Tara did most of the emotional upkeep. I¡¯m sorry, but Lydia was. She was convinced she was doomed, and kind of took it out on others at times. It was hard. If you¡¯re able to find Tara, you might be able to get more information. If you find her, could you tell her (REDACTED)¡¯ I did not, however, find Tara. The suggestion was made that she had changed her name (something she did fairly frequently) and was living incognito. Either way, she was a dead end. It would be some time between Lydia¡¯s initial disappearance and my discovery of her diaries. As such, anyone else mentioned in those pages was long gone by the time that I read their name. What I can say with some certainty is that there was next to no mention of Elaine during this period of her life. It seems that, during the four years she was studying, Lydia had experienced a time of relative peace from her curse. I will admit that I¡¯m greatly reassured by this. Four years of solitude Against a lifetime where she constantly felt watched. I simply cannot imagine. But all that slipped away when, early in 2020, Lydia suddenly came home. _____________________________________________________________________ The Secret Diary of Lydia Faire Volume 13, (Lydia Aged 22- this was found in a College Ruled Notebook in the Safe Room of the Second Faire House after its burning on 11/30/2020) February Eighteenth, 2020 Hey Lydia- can you guess where I am right now? It has been so long since I last wrote here that the world has shifted and changed, becoming unrecognizable from the world I intended to inhabit.. I had thought that I was getting better. Perhaps that is why I stopped talking to you. I am sure of this, in fact. There is no need to write down my thoughts to organize them if my life is in order. I know that this is nonsense, but there it is. The winter recitals and the fall out from them have taught me that the sand is still flowing from one end of the hourglass to the other and no amount of running can save me from my own mind. It is a yearly thing, the winter recitals. An opportunity to flex what one has learned in front of not only an audience but also the other professors in the faculty. My hope had always been that one of them would take notice and vouch for me to their friends in high places- that I would be able to find work if I did well. If I did well. What a joke. It was not one hundred per cent my fault. While I was already shaking before I even arrived that evening, all the way back to setting my makeup before leaving, the actual breakdown started with an off-tempo accompaniment. I am least confident in my voice of all the instruments I command, but something about feeling the speed of underlying music (which I could easily have provided myself, had I granted myself the confidence to do so) undulate in tempo and timing¡­.it felt like carrying a large stack of boxes and feeling them begin to topple over. My breathing shortened, weakening notes that I had sung a thousand times before. I tried to imagine Mal singing alongside me, her voice strengthening my own as it had when we practiced together at home, but her voice in my mind drowned out my own. I started to hear the missed notes. And all of a sudden I wasn¡¯t singing I wasn¡¯t speaking I wasn¡¯t even standing silent, as I did as a habit for years on years. I was screaming. It took a moment for people to realize what was happening. I watched all this as a passenger in my own mind. People looked confused, like they had no idea what was happening, before Professor Anton started walking up to the stage. My body stood stiff as a board. I didn¡¯t cower from him. I just stood there. I swear I didn¡¯t choose to do this. I was locked in place. But then he grabbed me and I just started flailing, still not conscious of what my body was doing. I hit him in the face and started hearing people crying out in outrage and disgust. I was still just screaming. I was in the clinic when I truly became conscious of my actions again. I asked what was going on, and tried slowly to build up my ability to speak. There was no patience for me as I was doing this. Everyone acted as if I had chosen this, like I was throwing a tantrum. I tried making my case, but no one wanted to hear it. Anton did not speak to me, instead sending an e-mail after my fate had been sealed. It was decided, first, that I would be taking a break. That I was clearly stressed from overworking myself. But I tried vouching for myself¡­.and I only made things worse. In any case, I know I will not be welcome there again. So I came home, hoping that The Girls would be able to comfort me or at least they would have some weed left to just bash my brain into submission until the storm had passed. But there was nothing there. Well, my things were still there, but I had arrived after they did so most of the things in the apartment were theirs. It was like the rapture, all of the things belonging to those angels vanished to whatever heaven they left to, but the items belonging to the sinner (me) were left to collect dust. They left a post it note. Not even a real note, a post it note. Lydia love, We¡¯ve flown away, we¡¯ll let you know when we land. Love and Shelter, M+T And I was truly alone for the first time. The first time in my life, I think. Along with the post-it note was a stack of cash along with a single card, one that had been mine long ago- Victoria, the pirate queen, which I had lost in a duel with Mal years before. They likely intended for the money to keep me housed until the end of the month, but I have no interest in staying in this box without my girls. I do not have anywhere near the amount of experience necessary to support myself in this city, either. Any road that winds here ends in me being just another crazy bitch on the street. I feel so weak. I had told myself that, by being up here so far away from her influence, that I was successfully avoiding my destiny. She has no idea where I am, to the best of my knowledge. I¡¯ve seen her once since I moved here, at an antique store that Tara took me to.. Such peace. And all of that falls apart because I am unwilling to risk homelessness to fight for more time. A few months. Just a few months and I would be safe. Is my comfort truly worth more than my life? My dreams? In any case, I took the money, stored it in my account, and bought a bus ticket. I did not want to fly, and besides I doubt I could have afforded it. I only called mom once I was already on my way. Is that manipulative? Is it manipulative that I waited until she could hardly say no to ask her for help? I just could not handle her turning me away. I do not know how likely a no would be but I simply do not know how I would react if she did. As she could not say no, she did not say no. So a day and a half¡¯s bus ride and more than five hundred miles away from the home that my girls and I had built for each other. Anna hugged me and looked into my eyes with this kind of depressed acceptance, one not unlike the one that I wear around almost everywhere. My boss at work asked me, suggestively, if I knew what ennui was. I didn¡¯t then, but I think I truly do now. She told me she loved me, but she could not bring herself to say that she was proud of me for how far I had gotten. Then again, all she knows is the failure and the weakness. We got home and I will not lie¡­. I was crushed to see how she was living- still in that trailer that Grandma had bought for her, clutter everywhere, and a distinct smell that I could not place hanging in the air. But we shared three or maybe four sentences between us. I laid down on the shitty twin bed that I¡¯d grown up in and looked at the empty spot in the corner of my room where Elle¡¯s mirror used to live. Small markings on the floor were the only evidence that she had ever been here. Anna stayed in the living room watching TV, but eventually fell asleep. Once I could be sure Anna was asleep, I checked under the floorboards in the hallway and found the previous entries of my memoirs- I will have to move them somewhere else soon, but I¡¯m glad they haven¡¯t been found or damaged by weather. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. And then I put on my coat, grabbed a flashlight from the closet, and walked into the back yard. The ground was always far too soft, giving way underfoot in a way that always reminded me of the idea of quicksand. So I, like I did every time before, danced hopscotch across the small open area before the line of trees that walled off our tiny patch of land opened up. Just off the middle, if viewed from the back porch, is a tree with a marking at eye level. I never asked mom what the symbols meant, but she was the one who carved them. One marker, then another, on and on down the trail in the dark. No sounds. It is too early for the cicadas, and all the strange creatures and critters who walked the woods were silent tonight. Silence save for the crunching of branches and the few remaining leaves yet to decompose on the forest floor. I was about halfway there when the forest was abruptly illuminated. I shielded my eyes, by then accustomed to the dark of night, and looked through the trees and still I was unable to see the source- but there it was, A harsh green, blinking in the night. Consistent enough to be a pattern, but definitely not morse from my understanding of it. I had lost my bearings meters ago. All I could see was what was immediately in front of me before the green light started blinking, but now I could see for moments, seconds at a time, the naked trees huddled together for winter and the uneven ground between me and whence the lights must be made. I walked towards the light for moments blindly, almost entranced. But as the lights grew brighter, I kind of got scared. Like- Go into the light, Lydia! Go into the light. But no, tonight is not my night. Then I started recognizing the trail markers. My mother¡¯s trail markers that she made with the girl from the woods. And I realized my destination. I stopped at the edge of the woods outside of the Faire House- I was close enough now. The blinking, this time, was from Christmals lights. I could see a much fainter, yellow light through the windows, deep within the Cavernous hallways, in the very heart of the home that once belonged to my family. I thought, for a moment, that I could see a woman standing in the window watching me. I backed further into the dark of the woods, thinking that it must be her and she must now know I am home. Looking at the clock on my phone, I realized that it was well into the morning now. I would need to get moving. So I clicked the flashlight back on, andI followed Raven and Anna¡¯s markers down to my original destination. The stone of the Raven¡¯s bridge was slightly outlined, edges shining silver- the blade of a knife -by the very early morning light I climbed up the stairs, which were damp and mossy- it must have stormed very recently- on my hands and knees. Looking down at them now I can see the dirt stains. Shame, but I from here it feels worth it. From here, I can see pretty far, the sky beginning to turn grey above. The lights of the House were dimmed by the rising natural light. I can see the dark green of the forest all around me, stretching for miles with only a few cursive lines cut through the trees where cars ran to and from the various hollers, and I can see the granite keeping me from hurtling into the swollen and brown river below. When the river is like this, the fall does not look deadly at all. It doesn¡¯t even look dangerous. A little further, Lydia But here I am, alone atop the Raven¡¯s Bridge, writing by flashlight the opening to what feels like the final chapter of my life. I wonder if David or Petra are still in town. I hope not, but I feel like they¡¯re right where I left them. Lydia, you¡¯re the strongest woman I know in spite of your failings. You have soared to heights that neither Elle or Anna could have imagined for you, and in the remaining days you will fight for every last minute. I love you. I can''t believe we''re here, at last. Not long now. Best of luck, Lydia Faire. __________________________________________________________________________ Raven¡¯s Bridge North Carolina is named after a landmark with history that goes back as far as anybody has kept records in the area. I¡¯ve traced residency of the land as far back as it goes - the branch of the Cherokee nation that first saved songs of the Bridge has a song whose name roughly translates to ¡®Where do you lead?¡¯, a ballad said to be the tale of its first discovery by two ill fated lovers. Some almost entirely faded markings on the stone underneath the bridge, screaming into the river below suggest the history goes further than that. The bridge is historically known as a place of love or a place of death. The name it was given is focused on the latter usage- the Raven¡¯s Bridge was frequently used as a suicide spot, and as such carrion have learned not to stray too far if they want an easy meal. As my research would uncover, it was also used for ritual sacrifice in the 1800s. Don¡¯t worry, the combination of event and date should make you nervous. These ritual murders weren¡¯t made by some backwater savages though stories may tell you that¡¯s more likely. They were carried out by my own family- Flesh and blood, just three generations before. ______________________________________________________________________ Mirrors 23:1 What follows is the rite of crossing, A ritual unique to the Faire and the walking- The holiest for travelers on the mirrored path And a hand to guide the mark¡¯d to death. One so marked shall be so with paint, The color prophesied by the Lady our Saint The lady will paint them, as then and always, So that we, she, and they know the way. And once this is done, we shall count days The counting is thirteen, as then and always Until the time of crossing, holy day and night. And at dusk we will take them and bind them tight The faithful will be armed, in one hand a knife And in the other a lantern, burning with holy light. Faire Elaine will hold bound hand of the Blind And lead them and their sins e¡¯en further behind Lights clear paths through the darkest woods O¡¯er The winding hills the trail will be walked by the good To the holy gate- the towering bridge that ravens own And up stairs to the stage to reap what¡¯s sewn Scripture shall the lady read, from this book or hers And the bound shall be allowed to speak a verse At this time, all lanterns will be emptied of light The green flame left to fall in the dark- in the night And then it shall be, by blade or by stone By blood and by bone and by throat and by heart That the bound will Depart from the land of the livin¡¯ And cross to our time, the time that we¡¯re given. And after this all faithful know The end will come and the start shall go That fate will come, regardless of haven And all have a path to the bridge of ravens ____________________________________________________________________________ There is a saying Everyone has a path to the Raven¡¯s Bridge Which is, surprisingly, more true literally than metaphorically. Almost every house within 3 miles of the bridge has a foot path leading into the woods and- if you follow those forking paths long enough- you will find yourself there. If you were to map out these trails, as I have, you would see a series of winding lines leading out from a central point- like the cracks in a windshield caused by a gunshot. The slab of stone that makes up the bridge portion of the Raven¡¯s Bridge is situated 100 feet above Weaver¡¯s Creek, a branch of the River Moira. Stairs have been carved into the mountains of stone on either side, allowing people to climb up to the very top. Places like this have a mystique to them- whether from a literal ripping of threads or simply an illusory effect of so many stories ending there (stories left with those who remain), the fabric of life and death seems thinner and more worn there. The town would like the place to be known for its majestic beauty, but will settle for it being a sordid rendezvous when faced with the darkest option. Lovers go for the excitement of potentially being party to a little death during their own- the desperate go to maybe be stopped or spotted by someone- their paths rarely cross. Most people have personal history there as well. I¡¯ve gone with my family- with Lydia and my Parents, and with Raven, and once, when everything felt lost and I needed to feel grounded, with myself. But it would be a long time before it would give the town itself a name. The area¡¯s first name as a town was, paradoxically, Driftwood. It was so named by my Great Great Great Great Grandparent Victor(ia) Faire, a pirate whose name is now associated with a grand variety of ghost stories themselves, but it was Victor(ia) who, with wood harvested from their ship and the hands of their disciples, built the first Faire House. The Pirate would disappear before the house was finished, And Faire¡¯s Daughter Annabelle, who was born at sea, would never leave land again. She would, in any situation that made it possible, avoid talking about her progenitor. ____________________________________________________________________ L, Wow- if you could feel the freedom I feel right now. I did it. Anna didn¡¯t even know! The bitch smiled at me as the steam from her tea billowed upwards- not for a moment warning her as it warmed her. She tried speaking to me of the desert- not knowing, even then. I would never tell her. You, I, and the few who remain of My Friends on This Side are the only ones who will ever know. Of course she was simply digging for incriminations. She was intending to betray me, you see? Of course you do. How could you, sister, not understand what I understand. She had been poisoned against me by the people of my town. My town. None the least among them the Hayward girl. That¡­..well. You know what she is. You know what I want to call her. So she asked. I told her only the beginning of the truth- I told her of the first winter. I told her how the people that she had given to me had wasted and died And the things those of us who survived had to do. I didn¡¯t tell her about the Scorpion- No one can know the things we did in the night. No one can know the venom poured into my body- only you and only me. She¡¯d noticed the difference in my demeanor. ¡®Are you ill?¡¯ She¡¯d asked when I first arrived. I like how I look now. The way the venom drains away the nasty color that had burned into my skin that reminds me of the Scorpion. Worse it reminds me of *****....I mean, the Hayward Girl. ¡®No, mother. I am taking a medicine¡¯ ¡®Whatever for, love?¡¯ She called me that- why¡¯d she think I¡¯d allow that? Does the bitch think that four years or so of summer thawed out the ice that she froze me in? Does she think I forgot about the room- so cold and so empty- that she locked the door to when you and me were only children? ¡®I was poisoned on the path, Annabelle¡¯ And that was the end of the discussion for a while. She didn¡¯t even suspect. She did, however, judge me for the effects it had on me. She saw the happy little clouds swirling around my head- the venom scaring away the demons You, She, and the Others had put in my mind. All the doubts. All the images of You, looking me dead in the eye as you¡­. Well- you know. She saw me happy and thought it was a deeper sickness. She called it a drug. It is medicine. It is, however, medicine that Annabelle herself could not handle. She simply fell asleep- face forward into her tea. I wonder if she even felt the heat on her face or if she was dead already. Anyway- How are you? You¡¯re still silent on your side. If you keep ignoring me¡­.I may be forced to do something rash. Have you read about the crossing yet? Do you know what I can do to you? What I¡¯ll do to you, if you don¡¯t love me? I poisoned my mother¡¯s Tea But I can poison your world. Think about it. If I let you be marked, we both know how it ends. Love and Kisses, Elle. ____________________________________________________________________ The first Faire House was much like the second- a massive hulk of a structure in the classical style. From the front, greco-roman pillars rose to keep a long, seldom occupied, porch dry. A great many windows look into walls of darker wood. I imagine that at the time it was even darker than I remember it, as the mirrors that ricocheted light within after Elaine¡¯s rise (Mirrors that would be included in the second Faire House¡¯s design as well) had not yet been added. On the back were more windows and a large, too steep, hill down into the forest below. It is said that the wood of the house had turned a cloudy grey before its destruction. The second house, in which I lived, was only ever white as I lived there. It is true that there were very few differences between the first and second house. One was a small panic room that my father added in my late teens, just after my brief abduction (see Raven¡¯s Bridge for more information) and a difference in measurement of the master bedroom. Father was never able to explain that difference, In my research, and in the letters I¡¯ve found, I have come to believe it accounts for a secret compartment behind a mirrored wall in the room. This is where Elaine would hide when she became fearful of her subjects and those who opposed her. This is where she would form prophecies during her last days. The first Faire house was burned down in 1876. Not much is written about what happened- I think this is by design. I believe there was a deliberate attempt to erase Elaine and her followers from History This is likely why I had not heard the name until Lydia first said it There seems to be a historical embarrassment about the event. In either case, Elaine¡¯s Brother Christopher Faire returned shortly after this and began the process of rebuilding the house. __________________________________________________________________ L, It¡¯s nice to know that you are home. I myself have been back for two months now. I saw you this evening- You looked into the mirror, but not into my eyes. Why? I won¡¯t go away. You know that. I saw the mud on your hands, did you go to the bridge again? It¡¯s so late. And the burns on your arm- tsk tsk- Are you smoking again? I¡­..I just realized- are you tormenting yourself specifically so I will be inhabiting a ruined house when I cross? Well- a ruined house would hardly be new for you. Does it hurt that Anna is still so poor? Does it hurt you that she couldn¡¯t save you? That she couldn¡¯t fund your exploits like Mother did mine? Broke Ass Whore. Please, if you read this At the Right Time- I¡¯d love to talk like we used to. Even if just briefly. I¡¯m sorry about your friend- I didn¡¯t know that would happen. I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m sorry. I don¡¯t know what else to say tonight Ever Your Beloved Curse, Elle. ___________________________________________________________________ And the Second Faire House and Christopher¡¯s line of the family were what survived, begetting branch after branch until finally at the lowermost point of the Faire Family tree was My father and then me. Part of me wishes I didn¡¯t need to speak about Vera and My father- all the crushed dreams and crushed flowers that led to my creation. But for you to understand my daughter And for you to understand the things that I myself did that might have contributed to her path¡­..I know I must.