9. Food for Thought

NINE

food for thought

Working my way down the stairs, I touch every picture as I pass, longing to learn more about each one. I know without looking that there are five people besides Ms. Francis in the room below: two men, two women, and a child.

The smell of shrimp and grits fills my nose as I move toward the noisy dining room. "Miss Abernathy, welcome," Ms. Francis greets me as I enter the room. The table in the middle of the room is large enough to seat twenty guests. On the perimeter, several smaller tables are set, each holding a few people. "Sit wherever you like. I've prepared a low-country favorite. I hope you're not allergic to shrimp."

"I'm not," I lie. Actually, not a lie, just an omission. I haven't eaten food in nearly three hundred years. I sit at one of the smaller tables, and she sets a steaming bowl in front of me .

"This looks amazing."

"I'm glad. Eat up."

I slide the food around in the bowl, hoping to make it look like I've eaten. Moving faster than human eyes can track, I dump half of the contents into a trash can nearby. "Would you join me?" I ask my hostess.

"Are you sure?" she asks.

"Of course. I'd love to ask more questions and discover more history on the home and Captain Rex."

She giggles as she sits down. "That reminds me. I found an old book that you're welcome to borrow if you like. After you checked in earlier, I remembered I had a history of the ships that belonged to the Hawthorne Company. You're welcome to look through it."

I focus on keeping my expression calm. "I'd like that, thank you."

"You're welcome, dear. Not many people your age are interested in history. Especially history from the 18 th century."

I smile at the irony. "No, I guess not."

She looks down, noticing my half-empty bowl. "Oh, how rude of me. Would you care for more?"

"No, thank you. I couldn't eat another bite. It was delicious."

"You know, I'm still finding items that were hidden around the house," she adds as she stands.

"Items? What kind of items?"

Francis shrugs. "You know. Journals, pictures, books…those kinds of things. "

"Have you found anything from Captain Rex?"

She shakes her head. "No, can't say that I have. That would be interesting, though." I wait at my table, strategically moving the remaining food in my bowl around, and wait for the rest of the guests to leave. Thankfully, it doesn't take long. As soon as the last couple exits the room, I help Ms. Francis pick up the dishes.

"You don't need to help me, dear. I can do it."

"I don't mind. I could use the company."

"Aye, me, too." She laughs.

Over the years, I've met hundreds, even thousands of humans. In that number, I can count on one hand how many of them I've felt comfortable around. Ms. Francis is one of them. Her energy offers peace for a reason I can't explain.

"If you don't mind, after we clean up from dinner, I thought maybe you could give me some history on some of the photographs and drawings."

"I'd like that," she answers.

Returning the dining room to its original splendor doesn't take long. Heading into the kitchen, I find her washing dishes in the sink by hand. I move to her side, taking over the position of drying.

"How long have you lived here?" I ask.

"Near about eighty years. I was born in that dining room you just ate in."

"Really?"

She sets a wet plate on the counter. "Mama always said the Hawthornes weren't very patient. I wouldn't wait until she got to the hospital and made an appearance early."

"You never changed your name?"

"No," she answers, picking the wet plate back up. "Never found anyone I was interested in. Back in my time if you didn't marry a man, you were thrown in a mental institution."

I turn, facing the elderly woman. "You didn't want to marry a man?"

She huffs. "No. Why would anyone want that?" Her eyes take on a faraway look. "I was in love once. It didn't work out."

"I'm sorry." I don't know why I'm apologizing.

"Me, too."

"Who will take over the house when you…"

Ms. Francis laughs. "You can say it. When I die? I'm old, but I'm not stupid. I won't be around forever." She sighs before continuing. "I don't have any direct descendants to pass it down to. There are a few distant nieces and nephews, but no one seems interested. I reckon when I'm gone, so will Hawthorne Mansion."

"I'm sorry to hear that. What if I could help?"

"Help? Don't take this the wrong way, but you're barely out of diapers. The upkeep is astronomical."

"Maybe I can find someone. Would you mind if I work on it?"

She hands the plate to me to dry. "Of course not. I'd appreciate the help. "

Back in my room, I research every bit of information available on Hawthorne Mansion, finding barely anything. From what I can tell the name was changed from something different around a hundred years ago. Before that time, there is nothing stating the original name of the home.

Ms. Frances brought the book she found after dinner, and I have spent the last few hours reading through every bit of information and pouring over every photograph. I half expected to see an image of Thorne, disappointed there wasn't.

Remembering what she said about finding hidden items around the house, I slide the heavy bed away from the wall. Searching behind the wooden, frame, I hope to find a link to Thorne.

Finding nothing, I move toward the water basin, hoping to find something Ms. Francis missed. Again, I find nothing. I move toward the ancient wardrobe in the corner of the room. The top of the cabinet nearly touches the twelve-foot ceilings in the large bedroom. I run my hands down the wood, imagining Thorne doing the same. I open it, finding nothing more than extra linens. "Did you use this, Thorne?" I ask softly. "Did you store your clothes inside?"

Moving to the bottom of the cabinet, I run my hand along the creases of the wood. Tears form, thinking about Thorne and the future life that ended so suddenly. I pull a drawer full of embroidered pillowcases out, hoping for some connection, finding nothing. I carefully place the antique linens on the floor next to me, realizing something rattled inside the drawer.

Shaking the empty drawer, it rattles again. How is that possible? It's empty. I turn the drawer over in my hands, looking for something mechanical to be loose. I notice the corner of a piece of paper underneath the wood.

I pull on the corner, not sure what it's attached to. The corner breaks off in my fingers. "Shit," I whisper.

Carefully, I pry what looks like a false bottom off the drawer. As soon as the wood separates, a small leather-bound journal falls to the floor, spilling its contents.

I close my eyes, begging this to be something that belonged to Thorne. I take an unnecessary deep breath and open the cover. Inside, in beautiful script handwriting are the words I've longed to see.

Property of Captain Hawthorne Rex

I can't hold in the tears. Three hundred years later, this is the closest I've been to him. I run my fingers over the letters, admiring the penmanship. I imagine him sitting at his desk in the captain's quarters, writing his fears, hurts, hopes, and dreams inside.

Climbing on top of the large bed, I bring the journal with me. Holding something of Thorne's after all these years feels surreal.

Carefully turning the pages, I read late into the night. The pages are filled with short glimpses into his life as a captain. Most are about the weather or dangers of the coastline. I run my fingers across a drawing of a seagull. Each page is a replica of the last until something grabs my attention. Hastily scribbled on a page is the word followed. I turn the page, looking for clues, and find the mention again. This time he mentions that he didn't trust Smith, the man I remember as his first officer.

A few pages later, I see his name mentioned again.

Smith is a man who will do anything for money—even selling his soul to the devil.

I wonder how it will affect us?

"What did you suspect, Thorne?" I whisper, turning the page.

A ship is following us. Smith tries to deny any involvement, but I know they're there.

I don't know what it means for our vessel. I don't think they have good intentions.

Elsbeth continues to sleep.

I stare at my name written in his journal. " Elsbeth continues to sleep," I say out loud, repeating his words about me. "I'm here, Thorne."

Turning the page, I realize I'm toward the end of his writings.

They're coming. I can feel it. We're not safe, but there's nothing I can do.

Elsbeth is awake, and my heart is grateful. My acushla.

She is the most beautiful being on earth. I wonder if she knows

what she does to me?

I must protect her at all costs.

Tears flow at his admission. There was nothing beautiful about me during that time. I'd gone months without a bath, and my hair was full of lice and tangles. What could have been beautiful about that? I turn to the last entry.

She's gone. He took her. The creature took her.

I will not rest until I find her. No matter what I have to do, I will find you, Elsbeth Abernathy.

I close the journal, crying the tears I've held in for so long. "I'm sorry, Thorne," I whisper into the pages. "I'm sorry I was never found." I cry for both of us.

A soft knock on the door brings me back to reality. "Elsie, dear. Are you okay?"

I wipe the tears from my stained face. "I'm fine, Ms. Francis. Just had a bad dream."

She's quiet so long, I'm convinced she's left. "If you're sure then. I thought I heard crying. Would you like a glass of milk to help you go back to sleep?"

"No, thank you."

"Good night," she says through the closed door.

"Good night," I answer.

I don't need shrimp and grits or milk. What I need is blood. It's been a while since I've eaten, and being surrounded by humans is making it more difficult. I carefully close the journal and place it in the drawer beside the bed.

Leaving through the window, I'm on Battery Street seconds later. I need to eat, but I refuse to harm anyone. I find a nearby bar full of people. Making my way inside, I focus on keeping my energy hidden.

It doesn't take long before someone bites.

"Hey, sexy. Are you alone?"

I turn, finding a middle-aged man who reeks of alcohol and sex. I smile. "Not anymore." I pat the empty stool next to me.

"Are you old enough to be in a bar?" he asks.

"What they don't know won't hurt them." I wink. " Why don't you buy me a drink, and we'll see how old I really am?"

The man smiles, revealing a mouth full of yellow teeth. "That's a plan. I like them young anyway."

He raises a hand in the air. "Two shots." The bartender nods in his direction before bringing two small glasses of brown liquid to us. I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the cheap drink he just purchased. I down the glass in one gulp, slamming it on the bar in front of me.

"Damn, girl. Slow down a little. I don't want you too drunk to suck my dick."

I laugh at the irony. "That's not all I'm going to suck."

He raises his hand, ordering two more shots. I mimic my behavior from before, this time pretending to sway on my barstool. "Oh, my. Maybe you were right. I should've slowed down a little." I turn off the Scottish brogue that has been with me for three hundred years, turning it into the drunk Southern girl.

"Why don't we get out of here?"

"Not until you buy me one more drink."

He laughs, raising his hand in the air. I copy my movements from before, this time pretending to nearly fall off the stool. The man wraps his arm around me, pulling me away from the bar and toward the door. Once outside, I keep up the facade as he guides me into a small alleyway, not far from the main street.

"I need payment for those drinks. "

I reach into my pocket, handing him a five-dollar bill.

"Five dollars? Those drinks are worth much more than that. I know the perfect way for you to repay me." He unzips his pants and pulls down the faded boxers he's wearing.

"I'd rather suck something else."

He smiles. "I thought you were joking." He lowers his pants to his ankles, exposing himself to anyone passing by.

Wrapping my hand around his neck, I turn him around, shoving his body into the brick of the building. A split second later, I'm on top of him, drinking the warmth from his neck. A deep sigh escapes as I fill my need with him.

Something moves not far away, stopping me from taking every last drop. I turn, seeing nothing there. The man in front of me is still breathing. "Shit, what are you doing, Elsie?" I ask no one. Releasing his body, I allow him to slide to the ground. He's breathing and will live another day.

I back away, leaving him another victim of a senseless crime. "Good girl," a voice whispers from the darkness.

My body goes rigid, hearing the familiar words Kragen said to me so many times. Did he find me? I sniff the air, expecting to be met with the scent of sulfur. Instead, I'm met with the now familiar smell of the city.

"You're imagining things, Elsie," I say aloud. "That's a common saying," I try to reassure myself. Either way, I'm not going to wait around to find out. I turn, heading to the river edge, leaving the still alive body naked and alone. Usually, I'm more careful. With the combination of discovering the journal and being too hungry, I was reckless.

The fresh air of the river calms the turmoil slightly. I spend the rest of the night walking around the city and replaying Thorne's journal in my mind.