There was never a more beautifully haunted house than Violet Water, the only house at the end of a winding, oak-lined lane. Even before the tragedy of the Lawrence murder, there was a certain malevolent air to the structure. The way it loomed over anyone who dared to look up. The sinister gaze of the bay windows. The creeping ivy that slithered from the ground up all three stories, and the shape of the shadows that those tendrils left on the ground below. The tips of the roof peeking over the pre-dawn mist, beckoning one to come closer. To prick their finger on the spires in the sky. Some would say that it was not the best place to raise a family, and others would say that it was the best for it was shrouded in enchantment and mystery, breeding only those of a particular countenance.
The master of the house was a kind man. His large hands were always warm, and his dark eyes always sparkling. Often one could hear the sound of his laughter reverberating through the halls of the home, but more often than not, he was off traveling to manage one of the many properties under his care. The lady of the house was a fitting specter to flit through those long, oak paneled halls. She looked like a watercolor painting when one spills a cup of water all over it. Her hair was so blond it was almost white, her eyes the palest shade of blue, like a morning sky covered with mist. Her cheeks did not hold any natural color, and when she dolled herself up for the occasional outing, the rouge looked out of place on the softened planes of her face. She was a gentle woman, but one would not call her serene. She was haunted from her conception. She was drawn to windows rather than fresh air, content to watch the world pass her by. She could often be found staring out a window long after the sun had set with no fire to keep her warm. Staring at the blackened skies, eyes unwavering in their pursuit of something that no one else was ever able to see.
The Lawrence children were four in number. Evangeline, Gerard, and the twins, Francis and Cecilia. The twins were the youngest, only six years old. Wherever Cecilia went, Francis would follow. Their fair heads could often be seen bobbing in the tall grass of the backyard collecting rocks and chasing birds. Like little cherubs they flew about Violet Water, fingers sticky and knees grass stained. Often singing or climbing trees, they had to be called home every evening once the sun began to set, always returning with new scrapes and wild stories to tell. Gerard was the eldest son, fourteen years of age. His small green eyes were always pointed at the ground or his nose deep within the pages of a book. He was a quiet boy, and like his mother, content with the silence to be found in many of the home’s abandoned rooms and parlors. And finally, the eldest child of the Lawrence clan, was Evangeline.
They called Evangeline the Jewel of the South, as everyone who gazed upon her was struck by her beauty. She had long, black hair that hung down to her waist. Porcelain skin free of any blemishes save for the natural rouge of her cheeks. Her eyes were as big as saucers and a deep emerald, constantly flickering like candlelight between calm and chaos. She lit up any room she walked into. Her laugh was that of bells ringing, and her smile was brighter than the light of the moon. She often danced to no music, and climbed the trees lining Violet Water Lane. Always as high as she could possibly be, lording over every living thing below, cherry juice dripping down her chin.
The morning that tragedy struck was a balmy one indeed. Fat drops of dew clung to the grass, and the air was heavy and silent. It was as if the whole world was holding its breath. It was about eight o’clock in the morning when Francis and Cecilia slipped out of the backdoor, their pockets laden with oranges, ready for adventure. They slowly worked their way through the backyard to the field that waited for them. They stopped to watch a group of ants carry the mangled body of a lizard to their hill. It wasn’t until they had almost made it to the base of a large oak tree whose limbs dripped with moss, that poor Cecilia looked up and unleashed a scream so loud it seemed to shift the very foundation of the house.
There, hanging from one of the tree’s lowest branches, was Evangeline. Her hair was blowing in the wind, and her feet were almost brushing the grass below. Her eyes were still open, fixed at some indiscernible point in the distance. Her expression was haunted, as though trapped between two worlds, as if her soul had not yet fully left her body. Her face was drained of all color, and for the first time, she appeared to look more like her mother than her father. Cecilia was crumpled on the ground by the time Francis took in the sight before him. He did not scream, and he could not calm the rapid beating of his heart or the ice entering his veins. For a moment he stood frozen, staring at the body of his sister swaying in the morning breeze. He grabbed his sister by the arm, and with tears streaming down his face, guided her back to the mouth of the house.
The events that followed occurred in a jagged and fragmented order. By the time the children had reached the house, a cook was compelled to the door by the sound of Cecilia’s scream. It took several minutes for her to make sense of what the children were saying, their words tumbling out of their mouths, rendering them incoherent. By the time that anyone realized what had happened, the whole house was awake and convened in the kitchen. Madame Lawrence was found by a maid wandering the halls, clutching herself, as if her frail limbs were the only thing holding her together. When she had been told what had become of her eldest daughter, she fainted. Her limp body had to be carried by two maids to a chaise in the home’s nearest drawing room. Word was sent to Master Lawrence right away, but he could not be reached until late that afternoon. It is said that when he was told about the death of his eldest daughter, he fell to his knees clutching his heart.
By the time he reached Violet Water, night had fallen. He found his wife and children in the room’s largest parlor, and when he entered, the door creaked close behind him. He found his wife and children huddled in the dim light. His wife was lying motionless on the couch, clutching a rosary and handkerchief in her hand. Her watery eyes, more clouded than usual, stared blankly at the wall opposite her. The children were gathered on the floor around the fire. Francis and Cecilia flanked Gerard, their cheeks glistening in the firelight. Gerard had an arm around each of his siblings and his expression, too, was blank. No one looked up when he entered the room.
In the following days, a storm blew through Violet Water. It rained for three days. It felt as if the house was mourning the loss of its most precious ward. Because of the rain, Evangeline’s funeral was delayed. Her body lay in a room in the back of the house. No fire was lit to preserve her body as best as could be done. Madame Lawrence insisted upon washing her daughter’s body with a cloth and a bowl of soapy water. Her feet were covered in dirt as were the underside of her fingernails. The house was cloaked in silence. Few candles were lit, and the inhabitants wandered from room to room with no destination.
The sheriff came to take statements from the family and servants. He had to take his boots off at the entrance because of the mud that clung to them from walking to the front door. He sat, shoeless at the kitchen table, as he took statements one by one. He started with the maids who had little to add other than remarking upon the grief of the family. The cook conveyed how the children had run to the house. She noted that Cecilia seemed not to understand what had happened, but she knew what she had seen was wrong. She had clung to her skirts, and as soon as the maid was able, she sent two gardeners to confirm the story. One had to climb the tree to cut the rope. The other stood below, arms outstretched, waiting to catch her as she fell. They brought her into the house and laid her upon a couch in a room just off of the kitchen.
The twins could not stop crying, so the sheriff kept his questioning brief, only asking them to confirm the time and sequence of events. Of the family, his conversation with Gerard was the longest. When asked if there was any indication that someone would desire to harm Evangeline he answered,
“My sister has always been strong-willed. If anyone wished to extinguish her light, she would have fought with everything she had.”
When the sheriff asked if there was any indication that Evangeline suffered from melancholia he answered,
“There are black spots on everyone’s soul, and I do not think that she was any different.”
The sheriff noted that Gerard, while waxen in complexion, showed the least emotion of the family members. His mother was a close second. She was practically catatonic save for a brief story she gave about Evangeline as a child. She had been trying to teach her daughter piano when she was around eight years old, and as she practiced the opening melody of Clair de Lune, she kept messing up the notes. Her fingers were not long enough to sweep over the keys the way her mother’s were. She became angry, and when she stood up, she threw the piano bench to the floor. She declared that she hated her mother, piano, and everything about her life. She was going to run away and never come back. She stayed outside for a whole day and night, sleeping in the branches of the very oak tree where her dead body was found. She only came inside when lured by the scent of dinner. When Madame Lawrence finished the story, she looked at the sheriff, her eyes wild and desperate. Just like that, the spark vanished from her eyes. She lapsed once again into apathetic silence, as if she had never spoken at all.
The sheriff spoke to Master Lawrence last. Although the sheriff knew that he was not home at the time of his daughter’s death, he felt that it was his duty to discuss the circumstances with him. When the sheriff suggested that there could have been foul play involved, Lawrence immediately rejected this idea insisting that he trusted his family and everyone in his household implicitly. Yet when confronted with the realisation that if this was not a crime, Evangeline had taken her own life, his confidence faltered.
The sheriff’s visit only briefly altered a new routine that was falling into place at Violet Water. The day after the sheriff left the home, the skies cleared. However, the halls of the home remained as dreary as ever. Madame Lawrence had taken to sleeping in her daughter’s bed, and the twins shared the bed in Cecilia’s room. Master Lawrence, not used to silences or downtime, had taken to taking long walks along the property. He encouraged his son to join him to no avail until the evening before the funeral. It was sunset, and the world was painted in golden hues. The pair blotted an otherwise clear skyline. They had been walking along a dirt path in silence, save for the steady buzz of cicadas. The father finally cleared his throat, searching for the proper words to say to his eldest son, but before he could, Gerard spoke up,
“Father, what do you think happened to Evangeline?” Gerard did not look in his father’s eyes when he asked this question. He stared at his feet as they trod their way along the path.
“I don’t know, son.” He hesitantly replied. “ It’s hard for me to wrap my head around a tragedy such as this. I would hate to say that she did this to herself, but I do not know of any other explanation.”
“I think she must have. Unless of course it was someone who was jealous of her. She once told me that she caught one of the maids trying on her dresses when she thought Evangeline was gone.” This statement hung in the air. Master Lawrence turned this sentence over and over in his head, hoping his son would say more. The rest of their walk was silent.
The service took place on a Friday morning. The sun was partially covered by clouds and humidity hung heavy in the air. The service was held in the chapel nearest to the home. It was a small, white building that was set about a hundred yards from the main road. Her body was buried in the cemetery behind the chapel. Evangeline was the first to be buried in the family plot. The family gathered before the casket in a line. Master Lawrence was the first to throw dirt onto the ground, his wife was leaning against him, her hand clasped so tightly around her son Francis’s that her knuckles turned white. She did not throw dirt; as her countenance was that of a woman who could hardly remain upright. The twins went next. Their still tiny hands opening over the hole in the earth. Gerard went last, his gaze fixed intently upon the coffin.
Following the funeral, a profound silence filled the home. It was a deeper grief than simply the inhabitants, it felt as if Violet Water itself had begun to sag and decay. The halls became darker, and it felt as if the walls were slowly closing in. As if the house was preparing to collapse upon itself into a singular point. Master Lawrence and the twins were the only members of the family who continued to dine at the table. These meals took place mostly in silence, as the father had little idea as to how to comfort his small children. The twins were no longer the gay children that they had been and had taken to silence save for their fits of crying. Once one began, the other swiftly followed. Their cries would echo one another, and they continued in volume until they had exhausted themselves to sleep. Gerard and his mother had taken to eating one meal a day at best, in the confines of their rooms. The servants went about their tasks in silence, and it felt as though the living were haunting the house.
That is until one dreary afternoon when the air hung thick like molasses. Gerard crept into his sister’s room. The bed was made, and the lace curtains hung limp about the windows. There was a bouquet of dried lilacs sitting upon the windowsill, the once vibrant petals now sparse and brown. Slowly and methodically his eyes assessed the room. He went to the nightstand and opened the top drawer. Gingerly he sifted through the contents. He opened a french novel on the bed, shook out the pages, and checked the inscription. Finding nothing of interest, he returned it to its spot. He found a hair pin, a rosary, a lace doily, sheets of blank paper, and a shrivelled clementine. He continued to search the room in the same scrupulous fashion, stopping at her jewelry box to take a lock of hair tied with pale blue ribbon and a simple pewter ring. He felt his search hopeless, until in a desperate attempt, stuck his hand under the mattress. There his fingers curled around an object. Gerard pulled it out to discover a diary. Opening the first page he found an inscription which read,
This diary belongs to Evangeline Lawrence. The contents of which are confidential and should not be read by any persons under threat of torture.
His breath quickened and his hands began to tremble as he flipped to the final entry.
Dear Diary,
Thursday refused to unfurl its tendrils even though it could have been something great. I still can’t seem to shake off the sense of foreboding that it has left in me. I went to the creek today, hoping to shake these feelings that were starting to slither through my veins, but I fear that I could have saved myself the trip. While walking across the field, I saw a black spot in the distance, though it was wobbly from the heat. As I approached I saw vultures gathered around something. What it was I could no longer tell, the poor creature was nothing but red flesh and tufts of white fur trembling in the breeze. These birds were not frightened by my presence. Those who eat rotten things are seldom startled by the living, I find. I could have sworn that one looked at me, and I, into its black eye. It was the unsettling gaze of someone who knows you very well even if you do not know them. In its reflection I saw myself, split open and bloody. Swaying in the breeze. The rest of my journey felt arduous. It felt like there were blackened eyes watching me. When I reached the waters’ edge, I splashed a cool handful on my face. I sat very still for a while, waiting for something to find me. Then, it did. The wisps of the willow swayed in the breeze, and I could hear them whispering something that sounded like a song. If only I had been able to make out what they were saying. Even now, as I write this late into the night the floorboards and windows are creaking with that same hymn. This song sounds like a dirge, but I cannot help the compulsion I have to dance to it much longer. This house feels like it is holding its breath. What is it waiting for me to do? I can feel its claws sinking into me. I do not know how much longer I can stay here.
Gerard dropped the book. His whole body was trembling, and he sat there for several minutes, looking at the tree outside of Evangeline’s window. One branch continuously scraped against the glass making a screeching sound like a violin when the bow is dragged violently across the strings. He hoped that by the time he collected himself that the screaming would stop, but it only got worse. He began to pace the room, fighting the heaviness of the air with each step. He sat again, and eventually afternoon turned to sunset. The room was drenched in golden and orange light shining a halo on Gerard. He remained motionless until dusk turned to night. Only then, coated in darkness and clutching Evangeline’s diary, he left the room that was just as untouched by life as it was by death.
For years the house stayed just as it was, resolute against the perilous assault of time. The inhabitants slowly morphed into faded imprints of themselves. The twins eventually returned to the grounds they so adored, but now they seemed to be shadows of the trees they once climbed. The same trees that they could occasionally be seen leering out from the branches of. They would go on to escape the home by the most delicate of negotiations when they turned eighteen.
As for the master and his mistress, they became little more than figureheads of the house. Once the appropriate mourning period had passed, Master Lawrence left again on business, but his trips home grew short and infrequent. The Lady of the home became even more fragmentary than she had ever been. She could only be seen in glimpses and illusions. Her fair hair turned white, and her reflection was translucent. The mirrors in her room for mourning, once covered for mourning, were never uncovered. The black drapes collected dust as the years wore on.
Gerard, always taking after his mother, became an imprint too. Or rather, his soul became tethered to the house. He now acted as the beating of the heart residing within Violet Water. He allowed it to slowly drain his pulse. The seasons weren’t as kind to him as they were to the home. He was wrinkled, grayed, and beaten by the years. Often, he returned to his departed sister’s room, as the sun set, just as he had on his final day. The room remained untouched and frozen in time. He would open the windows letting the lace curtains dance in the breeze. In those moments he allowed himself to think of life. To think of movement. To think of love. But only ever then, in those precious moments. He seemed to have known his fate from the moment he was born, and he learned from Evangeline that denying it only tempted it to swallow him whole.
❀