His Haunted Heart

His Haunted Heart

Copyright@ May 2015 Lila Felix / Rebel Writer Productions, LLC

P.O. Box 1711

Denham Springs, Louisiana 70726

His Haunted Heart, the novel, the characters, names, and related indicia are trademarks and © of Lila Felix

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Published by Rebel Write Productions, LLC / Lila Felix

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Editing: Todd Barselow

Cover Design: Lila Felix

Photo: Shutterstock / Photographer:
Roman Seliutin

Photographer: Swamp Scene/ Carlos Nunez

1. Young Adult Romance 2. Historical 3. Southern Gothic Romance 4. Paranormal-Ghost

His Haunted Heart

Prologue

Pain was the closest I’d ever gotten to love.

The murky water at my feet frightened me. It wasn’t the water itself, but what lay beneath, hiding, waiting to strike. But today, it was my only friend. At school, I’d made the most fatal of mistakes and here, by the edge of the pond that no one fished at any more, I waited for fate to catch up with me in the forms of my sisters with their jealous rage.

A bubble burst on the surface of the water and I jumped at the unwelcome noise. Fear had a deep grip in my gut and every noise sounded like death at my door.

Everyone had their breaking point. I was no exception. The chastising laughter of the other kids echoed in my thoughts. They’d formed a circle around me, pointing at my untruthful indiscretion.

“She sneaks out at night and earns her keep with the mayor.”

The mayor part wasn’t a stretch. It was well-known that since the mayor’s wife died his visits to the Plots had become more and more frequent.

At the age of eighteen, I could, legally, work at the Plots. But I was no whore.

“They say her pretty face brings in bags and bags of money.”

Another gulp of water was taken in by the pond, startling me. Most were terrified to visit this place. Sable, a girl of my age, had drowned herself in this pond years before. At least, that was the gossip. Her body was never recovered. No one cared enough to swim the depths for it. Two schools of thought surrounded her young suicide. The first was that it wasn’t suicide at all. The second was that her father tormented her, making her quit school at an early age to work and beat her when she didn’t make enough money. Unable to stand her life any longer, she put stones in the pockets of her dress and tied blocks to her own legs and drug herself to this liquid pit to meet her maker.

I could’ve understood the latter.

Most think of suicide as a selfish way to end one’s life. They think of the tears shed and the guilt left to the families of the deceased. But I thought it was a gift. If she was a burden to the people around her, like I was, then maybe my early departure from this life would be a weight lifted. My parents would have one less mouth to feed; one less daughter to worry about marrying off; one less body to keep warm. And my sisters, well, their load would be lifted the greatest amount.

My sisters hated me. Adele and Elaine used picking on me as their full-time hobby. In my eyes, we each had our own distinct attributes. Adele was an excellent cook. Elaine could embroider so well that even the finest ladies in the town commissioned her work. Both were slim and beautiful in their own rights.

Somewhere along the line it had been decided that I was the prettiest. My figure was unlike those of my siblings. Where they were slim and gangly, I was a little curvier, though my underweight state hid most of that. My mother and sisters made the claim that I had no need of skills, like cooking or sewing, that my looks alone would afford me anything I wanted in life.

I tried to ignore it for the most part.

But that day, as the insults made me bleed, I caught the look on Geoffrey’s face. He was embarrassed of being seen with me, maybe even more embarrassed than I was at being called a harlot.

They could hurt me all they wanted to, but Geoffrey was a good man. So I’d taken the opportunity, just that once, to take up for myself.

The fury on my sisters’ faces was priceless. Until I realized that it would indeed cost me a dear price.

The winds through the Louisiana bayou cypress trees woke me from my dream state and reminded me with a chill what awaited me. Adele and Elaine were not ones to stand by and take what was doled out to them, no matter how much they deserved it. They were revenge-minded women and would seek it—aggressively.

“I may join you this night, Sable;” I whispered to the spirit trapped in the water below.

The sun setting in the distance forced me to stand up and take a deep breath, knowing my fate could be served hot or cold. It was that unknown that terrified me the most.

I took my time walking back to our home. From the outside, it was a normal home life personified. The shutters were perfectly in place, the door clean and steps swept. The best cleaning my mother did was that stoop. She kept the thing perfect. She did more sweeping at the front door than she ever did inside our home, the gossip and tearing down of her townsmen taking up the majority of her time.

Ever so gently, I turned the knob and it betrayed me at once, letting its owner know that I was home.

“There you are! Where have you been?” my father’s boom barreled into me before the door had closed behind.

“I took a walk after school.”

“Your sisters have been worried sick.”

A guffaw broke from my lips before I could conceal it. They were worried that I’d offed myself before they could lay into me.

“I thought they’d be at the dance.”

“And why didn’t you go? They will be married with babes before you even begin to be courted. We can’t support you forever you know.”

“Yes, Father, I know. I will get to my chores now.”

“You’d better. And you’re too late for supper; you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to eat.”

Whatever grave crime I’d committed by being born, its punishment was meted out daily. Not in the form of beatings or other physical chastisements—it simply caused my parents to feel nothing for me.

I didn’t know which was worse, hate or nonchalance.

After feeding the chickens and pigs, I washed up and went to bed in my nearly see-through hand-me-down gown. My stomach churned against itself, causing noises so loud, I was afraid I’d wake my parents and those wretched sisters of mine. Thinking I could sneak downstairs and steal a bit of bread, I tip-toed down one by one, purposefully avoiding the one that made a squeak. In the dark and in my half-sleep, I’d avoided the wrong one and stepped right on the offending stair, causing it to yelp in despair.

I froze, awaiting the oncoming blast of voices, but it never came.

Into the kitchen I crept and found the heel of a loaf of bread and stuffed it into my mouth before I was caught. They must’ve thought my so-called beauty could be used in exchange for food, as well, since I often was only given scraps or scrapings from the others’ plates.

I didn’t ask why—I just accepted my life for what it was and hoped that one day it would be a distant memory.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” a cunning voice slithered to my ear and caused me to jump.

“I was starving. It’s just a piece of bread.” I knew Adele’s shrill voice like I knew my own palm.

“Who said you could have it?”

I turned to face her. “No one. This is my home too.”

Elaine stepped into the scant moonlight filtering through the window. “She’s gotten mouthy as of late. Perhaps she needs a bit of retraining.”

They acted as if I was a disobedient horse.

“I was just defending myself,” I said back with a pointed finger. I knew without a signal that our conversation had evolved into a confrontation about what had happened earlier at school.

“Again, who gave you permission?”

“I’m going to bed.”

Adele and Elaine stepped together, looking like a pair of conjoined twins in the dark, one body and two heads, blocking my path.

“It’s that pretty face that makes her so bold.” Elaine said with a voice so dainty and a smile so vile.

“If something were to happen to that face, I bet she’d come down from her tower.”

All of the sudden my sisters were poetic.

“Let me pass.”

“You know, Father sharpened his knives today.”

A tingling spider webbed down my face and neck while fear burrowed into the pit of my stomach. It had to be in jest. It had to be. “Be serious. That’s a crime. You’d go to prison.”

Adele shrugged. “Not if we kill you first. I’m sure the alligators would have a meal of you, no matter how measly it might be.”

I tried to push through, but their chain was strong. “Hold her down, Elaine.”

Elaine was the pudgiest of the three of us. Still, a tiny sliver of me thought this was all part of an elaborative scare tactic.

“Don’t be stupid.”

At that point, I was so nervous that stupid came out as
schtoopid
and they both laughed.

Before I knew what was happening, Elaine had knocked my feet out from under me and I was on my back, on the filthy floor where the rats played, with Elaine’s robust rear end sitting on my stomach.

“Just along the side. We don’t want her having an excuse for not working.”

I heard the ‘shing’ of a knife being drawn from its sheath and it fueled me, giving me a rush, enough to release me from Elaine so I could run.

I only made it about five feet before she tackled me again, this time using all of her weight to push me against a wall near the staircase. Her hands fisted my hair, keeping me in place.

I struggled, trying to squirm my way out of her grip, but I was stuck. Her hip nailed me in place and I was useless against her hold on my roots.

This was it. I was going to die over a piece of bread.

Adele, somehow, lodged her arm across the front of my neck and pressed against my throat.

“Just wait until she passes out. It will be easier.”

It sickened me even more that there was pre-meditation in their movements.

I continued to fight as much as I could, but the edges of my vision began to blur and darken. Just before I faded out of consciousness, a singeing burn drew a line down the side of my once pretty, pretty face.

Chapter One

Delilah

The last button on my sweater was cracked in half, but maintained its threads enough to complete the task it was knitted for. Neither blush-colored silk nor the pearls of a queen would help my plight unless they were fashioned into a mask that covered my face.

The last of the suitors would be at our door soon, and I would be expected to impress him with wit and intelligence since those were the only assets I had. It was embarrassing to say the least.

I had been pretty once, but that was all gone now.

My mother preached to me that marriages were about two complimentary personalities working together. Technically, she preached it to the fireplace, but I picked up the knowledge nonetheless. Yet, she constantly barraged me with speeches about how to sound smarter. I really shouldn’t have taken advice from a woman whose response to being asked for a second helping of potatoes was to chuck the nearest water vessel at my father’s head.

A suitor who chose me for my brain was problematic, according to my mother, in that it meant I would be marrying an imbecile.

My sister Adele married the clichéd rich, yet stupid man, who was brutish and carried around a lard vat of a belly. He picked his nose while no one was looking and grabbed my sister’s backside when she went upstairs.

Elaine, my younger sister, married a smart man, but rail thin and, in her words, had a rail thin—well, other parts as well. It didn’t seem to deter their public showings of affection or her getting pregnant on her wedding night.

At least she knew what to do on a wedding night.

I wouldn’t even know what to expect after sputtering out vows that I was sure I wouldn’t mean. We weren’t allowed books on the subject or anything near the subject. And though I was sure my mother would oblige my concern, the last person I wanted to ask was her.

A knock at my bedroom door startled me and caused my heart to double-time in my chest. I knew she would be coming for this inevitable talk. This was my last chance. I had no long line of suitors breaking down the door, vying for my affections. I had a cold-tempered father and a mother who hated the very air I breathed, and together they wanted their eldest daughter out—which meant I would have to endure one last speech about answering questions properly and maintaining a humble attitude.

I had nothing but humility left. Humility was all I could afford.

The corn cake and stray piece of bacon fat from breakfast somersaulted in my stomach as I heard a second knock, this one at the front door of our home. The door was so tumbledown that for every rap of knuckles, it slammed back in place with a knock of its own. When I was a girl, the noise scared me, made me think that someone was coming into my room. My mother told tales of my sleepwalking, claiming to be following a playmate.

Pulling a bit of bone-straight raven hair over my face to cover some of the blasphemous scar, I looked down below and appraised the gentleman from my bedroom window, ignoring the knock at my own door. Though it was raining, I could see most of him through the curtain of drops. He was tall, even without the status-quo hat. His pants were ragged at the edges and in great need of a hem. Even the ends were a darker shade thanks to the sopped up water. Waiting for the door to be answered, he looked up. I gasped and ducked out of sight. He needed not see me before he absolutely had to. Even if we were married, he would probably whole-heartedly agree to look at me as little as possible.

The overheard gossip of my sisters assured me that any marital duties would be handled in the dark, either way which contradicted their entire premise for ruining my pretty face. Then again, their claim to grabbing their perfect husbands was by the brow of their looks.

My gaze was redirected across the way to a tiny girl standing at the cusp of the town, just in my line of sight. She was three or four years old at the most. She stared directly at me, her white dress, old-fashioned for the early nineteenth century, billowing in the bayou breeze. The Louisiana swamps on the edge of the street seemed to weep with the rain, tired of being overcrowded. But not the girl. The rain didn’t faze her in the least. In fact, her dress was untouched by any wetness at all. It didn’t droop or cling to her form.

Movement caught my eye. Looking back to the street below, the man was now gone, having come into the house. Panic gripped my insides and shook them for effect.  Having to face another condescending suitor was last on my personal list of things to do today.

I chanced one more look at the girl, but she was gone. Her mother had probably caught up with her, dragging her out of the rain.

My mother came in, unwelcomed, and started in right away. “Delilah, he’s here. Heavens above, is that what you’re wearing? You look like a thundercloud come down to visit.”

Her face was made of the thunderclouds, so if anyone would know the look, it was her.

Shuffling my worn boots, I looked down and appraised my garb. “It’s the best I have besides my plum dress. He certainly won’t choose me for my looks. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“It matters. Trust me, it matters.” She approached me and I stepped back out of habit, though my mother had never physically struck me. “If this man offers you his hand in marriage, you must accept. Let’s be honest. There weren’t many to begin with and there won’t be another one after this. We can’t be throwing food down another gullet.”

Though her case for me getting married was laughable, I didn’t dare speak against her. My sisters both came over for breakfast and sometimes tea, nearly every day—even though their houses were bountifully stored with any food they wanted.

Of course, they were beautiful and refined.

Beauty granted women anything in this world.

Which is why I had nothing.

“I’m sorry, Mother. If he makes an offer, I will go—no matter what. You needn’t worry.”

I’d apologized for my parents having to feed me. Then again, I apologized for everything—just in case.

My words and tone addressed her as though she were a mother who actually cared whether or not I was wedded to a troll or an insolent murderer. As long as she no longer had to see me and my wretched face at the table, everything would be well.

I did what I could to help them. Working for three different households, doing all their laundry, brought in a decent amount of money, but my father demanded the lot of it, claiming that it didn’t even equal how much I ate. I handed it all over without complaint.

I was used to it.

It wasn’t a revelation, the disdain of my father. From the time I was born, he’d been adamant about my air of vanity and haughtiness. He claimed that he would break me of it one way or the other.

The notion was silly, that I attained any measure of vanity.

I wasn’t vain. I knew that I was pretty—just like the other girls. I knew I was thin—mostly because I was only given scraps to eat, like the family pet. And I knew I was smart because I had good marks in school.

Vanity wasn’t my friend and I took no comfort in her. Even if I had, she granted me no favor.

My face was ripped open—a fatality of my own sisters’ war on vanity, as if the society we lived in didn’t hold enough protestable sins.

Still, an ember of hope lay lit in my chest, telling me that there was someone who could still love me.

It probably wasn’t the man downstairs.

“Good. Now get yourself down there. Let’s not keep him waiting. We’ve got enough of an apology coming down the stairs without adding to it,” she added, flicking my cracked button with a grimace. I allowed myself one last look to the rain before succumbing to her pull. The rain had always calmed me and the rumble of the thunder reminded me that I was alive.

With her hand pinching my elbow, she shuffled me down the stairs; the bass of two male voices going back and forth could be heard over the crackle of the fire. A discussion was being had about whether or not the man in question could properly provide for a girl of my stature. My father might as well have asked him if he could afford to feed the heifer. The banter was so curt and strained, it sounded almost rehearsed.

“She wouldn’t need for a thing—that I can guarantee you.”

A grunt was my father’s only response. That and the squeak of his rocking chair were the only noises in the room. Maybe I could sneak in and just serve as a silent audience to this auction for their gnarly beast of a daughter.

The last stair creaked and announced our arrival. It was the same creak that usually made the mice shuffle about, scampering back to their homes and announced to everyone the one time I’d snuck downstairs to grab a piece of bread to subdue my gurgling stomach.

“That’s
her
.”

The vision of my face was so grotesque that even my own father thought I didn’t warrant a name.

“Your name?” The tall gentleman took a step forward, his face coming into the light of the fire. A strong-looking jaw worked back and forth as I stuttered out my name and something akin to ‘pleased to meet you’. He was easily five inches taller than me and as he got closer, his shadow made an umbrella over mine. I shrunk back, frightened and intrigued at the sight of him. His eyes matched the color of the smoke that billowed in every chimney in the village. They bore into me as the hint of a sideways smile began, but never took shape. Surely, this whole scenario was in jest. A man of his degree of handsome would never stoop to a betrothal with me. It must’ve been one of my sisters’ idea of a sick bit of comedy.

“Delilah. A lovely name. Can you cook?”

A dastardly question if there ever was one. My mouth opened, but my father interjected before my tongue could conjure a proper response. The man’s stare was still locked with mine and I could hardly work up a thought, much less a word. “She can cook, clean, wash the clothes and we are confident all your other needs will be met.”

My belly soured hearing my father speak of me as though I was a sow in heat. It wasn’t the first time my father had been unabashedly lewd and revolting when boasting of my wifely skills. Bile rose in my throat and by instinct I turned away from the whole scenario. The gentleman, who stood stoic, would soon be disappointed if he believed one word my father said.

“Excellent. If Delilah would have me, we would be married in the morning.”

My knees buckled. I barely caught myself on the wobbly bannister of the stairs behind me before I slumped onto the filthy floor. Father had barely taken three puffs of his cigar and a proposal was made. What nonsensical man does that?

My father smiled, revealing teeth dotted with tobacco pith. “She’ll have you. Would you like to eat with us tonight?”

I didn’t see the point in prepping me for instant acceptance of any proposal if they were just going to answer for me.

“I’d be honored. Thank you.”

At once, my mother scuttled into the kitchen, with a firm grip on my skirt, dragging me along. My head was swimming with prospects and at that point, none of them were good. Her dusky apron was tied around her waist as she planned with a finger pointed at me.

“We’ll make chicken and roasted vegetables. That’s sure to warm his belly and keep him satisfied.”

With jerky movements, I wrenched the carrots, turnips, and potatoes from their bins. God forbid my parents actually offer me a congratulations or at least something close to it. A relief warmed my chest as I chopped up the meal’s accompanying vegetables. This was it. Answering a couple of questions and cooking a meal was the price of my freedom. I sent up a silent prayer that I wasn’t trading the devilish duo for Beelzebub himself.

My intelligence wasn’t needed after all, which frightened me more than it should’ve.

Maybe all that was expected of me would be obedience.

Obedience I could handle.

Just as it came, the relief faded and was replaced by skepticism—a gnawing that curled my insides and made me pop my head into the living room more than once to verify the truth of his presence. He’d seen my face, I knew that. Yet, not a word was said about it and no mention of anything else was muttered.

Something beneath the surface must be wrong with this man.

While I allowed doubting thoughts to meander through my mind, I watched my mother prep the chicken to be roasted. She’d never allowed me into the kitchen and so, the boasting of my cooking skills was dishonest at best.

I hoped there was a slim possibility of me learning the craft of chicken roasting in one afternoon. That way, Mr. ‘Can you cook?’ wouldn’t go hungry and throw me to the street. We’d have chicken every night, but neither of us would starve.

“Start the coffee and the biscuits. Don’t just stand there like a twit.”

“I don’t know how to make biscuits.” She turned around, looking shocked and then recognized the accusation in my squint. It was her fault she’d never taught me to cook. She was always afraid that I’d excel at something—anything—and maybe outshine the other three women in the house. “Yes, well, I’ll make them. Just start the coffee and get Gran’s good tablecloth from the cabinet.”

There was no use getting the good stuff out now. He’d probably already seen the decrepit floors and the layer of aged soot around the fireplace. It wasn’t as if he thought he was dining with royalty. I shrugged and retrieved the tablecloth after putting the kettle on to boil. A stray rag was used to swipe the crumbs from the table and into my hand. There was no use in putting a cloth on top of crumbs, it would be like throwing a curtain over the pebbles on the beach.