The Horrifying Tale of Mrs. Trollope: Chapter 3
With melancholy eyes, Giselle watched her father push his dinner from one side of his plate to the other. She had gone to some trouble preparing his favorite meal and still he hadn’t taken a bite. How many years had it been, she thought musedly to herself, since last it had been anything like this?—and realized that even during those bleak times, so prevalent throughout her childhood, it hadn’t been so bad as this. For something new and evil had been added to the mix.
“What’s wrong, Dad? You haven’t even tasted your food.”
He took his time putting down his fork. A moment’s reflection was needed to address his eldest daughter’s concerns in order that a lie not pass his lips.
“I’ve been struck by a sudden urge to speak to your sister. I need to hear her voice—to make sure everything’s all right.”
“Jack’s with her. I pity anything that tried to do her any mischief with him standing nearby.”
“If I could just talk to her. Damned cell phones.”
“Don’t blame the cell phones. Need I remind you that’s one of the reasons you’re so in love with that cabin hideout of yours? No phones—land, cell, or otherwise.”
To this Jonathan made no reply. His mind was elsewhere, on matters greater by far than even life and death.
“Sweetheart,” he said, getting to his feet. “There’s something I have to do. And since I’m not being especially good company tonight, I trust you’ll forgive me if I tend to it.”
“Okay,” she replied quietly. “Call me later . . . if you feel like it.”
Just as always had been done, they hugged each other at the door. And also, just as always, his eldest daughter said, “I’ll love you forever.” But not just as always, and even for the first time, the smile she received was a most bitter one.
Giselle scraped the dishes clean. And after putting them in the dishwasher and pouring a cup of coffee for herself, she sat down to try and figure out what was going on.
It had been years, even decades—though just a few as Giselle had not yet entered her mid-thirties—since she had last seen that tortured look upon her father’s face. Times so awful it hurt to think about them. But why now, after such a long time, would memories of her mother’s mysterious death so suddenly have cropped up again?
The cup of coffee to her lips; in the midst of a long and pensive sip; lo and behold there came a fleeting image—a memory of so long ago that time had taken it upon itself to sweep it out of reach and underneath the rug—of two little girls sitting in a corner. And with its appearance came a feeling of despair such as she could never even have conceived. But as abruptly as it came, it went; and though she tried with all her might and main, she couldn’t bring it back again. And so she gave it up, at least for now, and took another sip.
Far from New York City and a goodly ways across the world, a man answered a telephone for which few people had the number.
“Hello,” he said, in a tongue other than English.
What he heard was, simply, “She’s here.”
The man, five thousand miles away, tightened his grasp on the phone, threatening to crush the space-age plastic like so many helpless kittens.
“You’ve seen her?” His voice was soft thunder; a lifetime of unfulfilled vengeance. “With your own eyes?”
“No. But it matters little. Were she breakfasting across my kitchen table, I couldn’t feel her presence more.”
“Then rest assured, Jonathan, that I’ll be wasting no time in getting to your side.”
After some minutes, and the conversation having ended, the man in the foreign land again put the phone to his ear. Dialed; rung; answered. At the usual silent greeting, the man said, “Hello Nicholas, it’s me.”
Silence, still.
“I’m leaving the country; I’ll be needing the cameo.”
At this Nicholas couldn’t help but speak. “Am I to believe my ears? You’ve found her?”
“You’d better sit down for this. It’s not I who’ve found her; it’s Jonathan.”
A gasp, a knotted throat, and a single wracking sob broke through. But that was all. Because, at that moment, spoken words for Nicholas would have been impossible.
“I’ll be by to pick it up shortly. I’ll leave straight from there for the airport.”
Nicholas, having gathered himself somewhat, said, “The pass is flooded.”
“I know. But I’ll get through somehow.”
“Then go; take all our prayers with you. And mine, most fervent of them all.”
“Prayers or no, my friend,” said the man with the voice of thunder. “This time we’ve got her.”
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Mrs. Trollope, a vampiress the likes of whom Dracula would have been proud, will break your heart in what's been called one of the finest vampire novels since Dracula. And if you're looking for the next chapter, you'll find its location at rembrandtpublishing.com under the page called 'Chapter Sprinklings.'
Brought to you by Jim Humble’s Miracle Mineral Solution. For without it I doubt I’d have stuck around long enough to tell the tale.