The Writing Retreat(12)

“Are you by any chance going to Roza Vallo’s?” Her words were fast and choppy, like she was rushing to get them out before she sprinted away.

“I am!” I’d managed to remain somewhat calm on the train, but now excitement and fear lit up my entire body. I stuck out my hand. “I’m Alex.”

“Poppy.” Her little hand squeezed surprisingly hard. “Oh my god, are you just like dying?”

I laughed at her openness. Her animated face and Valley girl intonation were so different from what I would’ve expected at a Roza Vallo retreat.

“Yes, absolutely.” I grinned. “I can’t believe it’s actually happening.”

“Girl, me neither!” Her warm brown eyes widened. “I’ve been driving everyone I know nuts. I’ve just been freaking out about it. Oh, should we find the car? It’s probably down there.” She continued to chatter as we crossed the icy terrain, across the platform and down the stairs. Below, in the small lot, a black car waited, steam rising from the tailpipe.

“Oh thank Jesus. I’m so effing cold.” She beelined for the car and I hurried to keep up. A man climbed out as we neared.

“Afternoon, ladies.” He had a flat upstate accent and a full, white-flecked beard. We greeted him and jumped into the back of the car. Inside, it was deliciously warm and smelled like fake vanilla. An air freshener shaped like a cookie hung from the rearview mirror, along with a rosary.

“I’m Joe,” he called.

“Hi, Joe. I’m Poppy. This is Alex.” She grinned at me, eyes crinkling. There were faint lines around her eyes and mouth; I had the feeling that she smiled a lot.

“Poppy! Haven’t heard that name before.” Joe pulled smoothly out of the lot.

“It’s Scottish.” She shrugged.

“Scotland, huh?” Joe said. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“It’s great. Really violent, though. People are constantly getting into fights. Once I saw two men walk out of a church and punch each other.”

Joe and I laughed and Poppy leaned back, pleased. “Do you work for Roza, Joe?”

“Sometimes. Not directly. I just work for the cab service up here.” He glanced back at us in his rearview mirror.

“You from here?” I asked.

“Born and raised.” He dipped his head. “It’s a nice area. Pretty isolated, though. Guessing that’s why Ms. Vallo likes it.”

“Have you interacted a lot with her?” Poppy asked.

“Nah, she keeps to herself when she’s here. Her staff—I think her name’s Yana, the one who calls—they set up the transportation when people come in from the city.”

“How long has she been up here?” Poppy leaned forward, grabbing onto the back of his seat with pink-painted nails. She was definitely trying to get some kind of inside scoop.

“I think she bought the estate in 2000? Took a few years for her to fix it up. The place had really gone to shit.” He coughed. “Pardon my French.”

Poppy noticed me watching her. “I’m super obsessed with Roza.” She rolled her eyes. “And Blackbriar. I’m such a sucker for haunted houses.”

“Oh, yeah. I totally get it.” For the past few weeks I’d been focusing so much on the reality of spending a month with Roza and Wren that I hadn’t even thought about the estate. Of course, I knew all about it. After I’d read Devil’s Tongue at twelve, I’d done a deep dive into Roza on a library computer the first week of school. She’d fixed up Blackbriar just a few years before then, and several magazines and papers had covered the transformation. It only made sense that one of her houses was the site of unsolved murders.

“You know the story, right?” Poppy asked me.

“Of course. Daphne and Horace.”

“And Lamia.” She grinned like I’d passed a test. But anyone who was more than a casual fan of Roza’s knew the story, which was itself like something out of one of her novels.

Oil baron Horace Hamilton built Blackbriar Estate in the late nineteenth century. A lifelong bachelor, he fell for a waitress in town, Daphne Wolfe. Daphne caused a stir, first by her much younger status, then when she started a séance group. The spiritualist community at that time considered Daphne a powerful channeler, initially through automatic writings, then drawings and paintings. The trouble started when Daphne claimed to have connected with a powerful female demoness named Lamia. Daphne told her group that Lamia wanted to channel a “great commission” through her art.

The others in the group became disturbed by Lamia and left. Horace forbade Daphne to welcome a dark spirit into the house. After a huge snowstorm, the staff returned to find Daphne and Horace dead. Horace had been eviscerated in bed. And Daphne was in the basement, her body burned beyond recognition.

Most assumed that Daphne, caught in the throes of a psychotic break, had killed Horace in his sleep and then lit herself on fire. But, mysteriously, the rest of the basement was completely untouched, including three completed paintings nearby.

“So you grew up here,” Poppy said. “You heard all the stories about Blackbriar?”

“Oh, sure.” He chuckled. “We used to dare each other to spend a night inside. The doors were locked but people went in through a broken window in the back.”