Bloodstone

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

Copyright ©2013 by Diane Hill

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-1-329-18763-4

Contents

Bloodstone

Diane Hill

Prologue

Father Duffy

The Nuns

Moving Day

Signs

Trouble

Histories

Michael

The Cabin

Studies in Nature

All Saints and Souls

Pilgrims

The Gift

Terry

Jesus

Sky View

The Last Super

A Dangerous Game

Disconnected

Into The Fire

Afterlife

Epilogue

Prologue

Where do I begin?  How do you describe a series of events so fantastic that it changes the course of one’s life?  How do you explain so many tragedies occurring in one place?  After all, a place is an inanimate object, only given life by the people who inhabit it.  Or is it a living, breathing thing with a memory of its own?

And what about all of those coincidences?  When is a coincidence not a coincidence?  When there are too many of them?

Stop it, Claire!  You’ll drive yourself crazy! she told herself.  It’s just exhaustion talking.  Stop thinking about it!  Or you’ll end up like Leyland Bloodstone!

This drive across the country to the west coast leaves me with too much time to think.  As I stare out the window of the little black coupe, watching the endless parade of corn fields and the endless ribbon of highway, I can’t help but think how this boring landscape pales in comparison to what we left behind.  Bloodstone Manor, with its intricate gardens and fabulous fountains.  Layers upon layers yet to be explored.  Bloodstone, the keeper of secrets!  I truly believe that we merely scratched its surface!

I glance over at Jesus who is driving and singing softly along with the radio, and then at Michael, still asleep in the back seat.  The safety of the car and the miles we’ve traveled now make our time at Bloodstone seem like a bizarre chapter out of someone else’s life.

I try to concentrate on the good things, like Jesus and Michael.  And the fact that we’re still alive.  We have a future.  Hopefully far away from that place.  Although, no distance would be great enough to keep it away from our thoughts.  But we can try.

How will it change us?  Jesus is older and mentally stronger.  Michael is still a boy.  As for me, even after everything that has happened, it still beckons me.  Like something forbidden that you know you shouldn’t have.  Which makes you want it even more.  Tantalizing.  Seductive.   That place that brought us together.  That place where it all began. It’s too imbedded in my being.  Like all of the experiences that make you what you are and what you are to become, it’s part of me now.  And always will be.

My Bloodstone.

Perhaps there are no coincidences in life.  Perhaps it depends on what you believe.

Father Duffy

Father Duffy was remarkable in the fact that he was very unremarkable.  Almost invisible really.  The youngest priest in St. Joseph’s Parish was a quiet, shy, ordinary man of twenty-five.  He had soft brown eyes and brown hair with a growing bald spot in the center of his head.  This aspect, along with his outfit, made him look more like a friar than a priest.  Except that he was tall and thin, rather than short and fat.

He nearly fell over when he was summoned to the Archbishop’s office by Monsignor Malloy.  His first thought was that he must have done something wrong, although he couldn’t imagine what.  He was always obedient, never questioning anything.  No task was too small or too hard.  He took his service to his superiors as seriously as he took his service to God.  Unbeknownst to him, that was exactly why the Archbishop had chosen him for this new task.

He walked down the long marble hallway, head bent as always.  He watched his sandals appear and disappear from beneath his long brown robe.  He looked up to find he was three feet from the large oaken doors of the Archbishop’s private office. Whatever was about to happen, it was God’s will, or at least that is what he told himself as he knocked on the door.

Archbishop McMillan had been looking at the items in the folder on his desk.  A rather large, imposing man, he was not easily intimidated.  He just wanted to be absolutely sure he was making the right decision.  There were copies of newspaper articles describing some horrible events that had taken place in their parish decades ago but the estate where these things had happened would be just perfect for their needs.  The mansion was large enough for a convent, orphanage, and school.  The 550 acres could be used for farm animals and crops.  The lake that the mansion overlooked was already stocked with fish.  The place could be self-sustaining.  It was a deal too good to pass up.  The opening bid was for unpaid taxes, only $25,000!  Well, one thing the Archbishop was sure of, he had chosen the right man for the job!

Wet feet and soggy sandals were a small price to pay for such a great honor.  The gloom of a rainy day could not dampen Father Duffy’s mood.  The auction would be inside today, in the basement of the county courthouse.  He walked along in his usual fashion, head bent, but with his hood over his head, which practically obscured his entire face.  This was probably a blessing, since he couldn’t see the looks he was getting from the people going into the auction room. 

Soon everyone was seated.  He fingered the pamphlet in his hands that listed the properties to be auctioned off.  If these were in order, he would have a long wait.  The mansion was the last property on the list.

After the first ten lots were auctioned off, the auctioneer made an announcement.

Let’s mix it up a bit, he said, just to keep everyone awake!

People chuckled and repositioned themselves in their seats, suddenly intrigued.

The next property is very special and very grand, he said. It’s number sixty-six in the pamphlet – The Bloodstone Estate.

Some gasped, some groaned.  Father Duffy looked up at the auctioneer.  This was his moment.  He could not fail!

As you all know, he continued, the estate comes with a mansion, outbuildings, its own lake, and 550 lovely acres.  So we’ll start the bidding at $25,000.  Do I hear 25? he asked.

Father Duffy, never having been to an auction before, didn’t know the protocol for bidding.  He hesitated, but only for a moment.  He stood up and said Yes, sir!

Every eye in the room was on him and he knew it.  He tried not to notice, looking directly at the auctioneer.  The blood went up his neck, into his cheeks, and on to the very top of his balding head. 

Do I hear 30? Complete silence. 29? A few people coughed. 28?  Some throat clearing. 27? Seat shifting.  26?  The auctioneer sighed.  Sold to the young man standing!

Thank you, sir! said Father Duffy as the auctioneer pointed to the door.

Go upstairs and see the clerk! 

At that point, the auctioneer just wanted the awful business over with.  He knew the church had been the only entity to preview the estate.  As for the others in attendance, it had gone just as he had expected.   He knew that no one in their right mind would bid on the place.

Whispering.  He heard them whispering, but he could not make out what they

were saying as he exited the auction room.  The thunder grew louder and louder outside as if the heavens themselves were trying to warn him.  He had made a terrible mistake, but he was blinded by his obedience and the inability to think for himself anymore.  He never even asked himself why he was the only bidder.  He couldn’t have known it then, but his greatest achievement would be his greatest sorrow.

The Nuns

Mother Superior had the daunting task of organizing the move.  Their little convent, which housed herself and twelve nuns, was quite old and in disrepair.  So was the orphanage which was home to twenty-five children.  So when the Archbishop had told her of his new acquisition, she was not surprised.  To repair the orphanage and convent would have cost far more than the price the Church had paid for the mansion.  Sly dog, she thought to herself as she placed more file folders into the box.  She wasn’t sure if he knew of its reputation.  Surely he must.  But rumors and superstition wouldn’t keep such a practical and ambitious man from making the deal of the century!  After all, he didn’t have to live there.  They did!  She stopped herself.  Keep an open mind and trust in the Lord, she thought.

The sudden knock on the door interrupted her reverie and she jumped a bit.

Come in, come in, she said.

Thank you, Mother. 

It was Claire Winslow.  She was one of the novices or nuns-in-training.  The kids called her éclair, like she was some kind of pastry.  She was young, barely eighteen, a little slip of a thing with the face of an angel.  This innocent look is probably how she got away with all the petty crimes she committed before she eventually got caught and sent to juvie.  But she couldn’t blame the child, living on the street, fending for herself.  With parents that were God-knows-where.  Another runaway.  There were a few here.  That was their choice – jail or here.

Do you need any help, Mother? asked Claire.

Where is Sister Pat? replied Mother Superior, glancing up at her, but only for a second. 

Sister Patricia was the oldest nun there, about eighty, but no one was sure, as Sister Pat couldn’t remember her own age.  She was a small, wrinkly, slightly-stooped old lady who was always dipping into the cooking sherry and then looking for a place to curl up and take a nap.  Sister Michelle, nicknamed Cook after her occupation, never said a word but would simply order more.  They think I don’t know what goes on here, Mother thought.

I haven’t seen her since breakfast, Mother, replied Claire honestly.

Mother Superior looked up and into Claire’s face.  Her skin was the color of milk dotted with freckles.  Her large green eyes were riveted on the older woman, intent and eager to please.  Mother Superior’s look softened.

Go see if Cook needs any help in the kitchen.  I’m almost done here.  Thank you, child.

Bright girl, she thought.  She should continue her studies.  Become a teacher.  The kids loved her.  And why not?  After all, she was one of them.  Except for one rather odd talent.  Claire had an uncanny sense of smell.  Not in the usual way.  She sometimes smelled things that were not there.  Things no one else did.  It was like her very own built-in warning system.

One night, after all of the children were in bed, there was an incident that could have ended tragically.  The nuns had just finished their evening prayers, when Claire became quite agitated.  She started sniffing the air and looking around.

What’s the matter? asked Sister Michelle who was walking beside her.

Don’t you smell it? replied Claire now looking quite upset. 

The two had stopped walking and soon the others did too.  Because Mother Superior herself, who was leading the way, had stopped and turned to see what the delay was about.

Smell what, dear? Sister Michelle was round and jolly and a bit of a prankster.  She had been sweating up a storm in the kitchen that day and suddenly thought she could use a shower.

Sulfur! Like when you strike a match!  Claire had grabbed Sister Michelle’s arm with both hands and was squeezing it, making her wince.

No, I don’t, but we could check the kitchen if you like. 

Cook had to pry Claire off of