I've Come for My Girl and Two Other Dark Tales Read online

  I’ve Come For My Girl

  and Two Other Dark Tales

  Marlene Pardo Pellicer

  No parts of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic or electronic process or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or otherwise copied for public or private use other than as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews, without prior written permission from the author.

  I’VE COME FOR MY GIRL & TWO OTHER DARK TALES. Copyright © Marlene Pardo Pellicer. First Printing 2020. Printed in the United States of America

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHED BY ELEVENTH HOUR LLC

  www.11thhour.company

  E-BOOK ISBN 978-1-7348360-2-8

  About the Author

  Marlene is a native Miamian and has been writing since 1971, (on a manual typewriter when she was eleven years old).

  She is the founder of Miami Ghost Chronicles, and a paranormal researcher since the 1990s. She is also the producer, host and narrator of Stories of the Supernatural, Nightshade Diary and Supernatural StoryTime podcast series, and the blog author of Stranger Than Fiction Stories.

  Marlene lives with her husband Henry (AKA official sandwich maker for starving authors) on a micro-farm and bee sanctuary in Miami’s 100-year-old agricultural belt, surrounded by several dogs (AKA writing companions), various noisy exotic birds, a large flock of equally noisy free-range chickens and a very quiet rescue rabbit named Thelma.

  If you’d like to receive my newsletter announcing specials, updates on new books and requests for ideas, please sign up on my website.

  www.MarlenePardo.com

  Other Books by Marlene

  FICTION

  The Path to Purgatory: Book 2 of the Sibyl Chronicles (2020)

  Diabolique: A Sibyl Novella (2019)

  Walker Between the Worlds: Book 1 of the Sibyl Novella (2019)

  NON-FICTION

  Haunted History of the Old West's Wicked Ladies & The Bad Hombres They Loved (2017)

  The Lady in the Blue Kimono: Film Noir Murders (2018)

  Supernatural Safety: A Paranormal DIY Guide (2018)

  Table of Contents

  I’ve Come For My Girl 8

  Railroad Rooster 18

  Under the Shade of the Avocado Trees 26

  I’ve Come For My Girl

  A gargoyle crouches above the town where I’ve lived my entire life. It’s in the shape of an old and abandoned castle. It’s fashioned in a cross between a small chateau and a manor house found in the French countryside. A round, conical tower is topped by an iron cresting that rises over the entryway. The roofs, hipped and steeply gabled are dominated by several tall chimneys with decorative corbels that grace its outline. Many have crumbled. The yard is shabby, and grimy windows stare out confirming that life is no longer lived within its walls. There are times I’ve experienced a moment of expectancy that I’ll see a figure walking through the overgrown yard.

  There are no other houses around it.

  Its air of neglect is the perfect disguise. You see what you expect, a rotting hulk with pigeons nesting in its crevices; spooky for the imaginative, an eyesore for the practical. What coils in its being hides stories of sorrow and love, tears shed in happiness and despair. But secrets want to stay hidden and allow its deep heartbeat to keep thudding with memories that impregnate the walls and the places in-between.

  I am fascinated by it.

  If I tried to explain the allure of this place, words are not sufficient. Intuition is sometimes hard to describe. The outline of its spires poking into the horizon strike a chord of recognition within me. It beckons to come closer and examine why it calls to me; to find the explanation, where I conclude, “Ah, now I get it”. However, the resistant part of me whispers, “That is a ruse. You’ll find no answers, only more questions. It’s quicksand, pretending to be an innocent puddle.”

  For many years I ignored its existence. If a wrecking ball flattened it, I would not have noticed. Then a year ago, I took a job that made me follow a route where there was no choice but to see it, and that’s exactly what happened. I saw it. I discovered it. With newly minted eyes, I reminded myself that it had perched in solitary secrecy for countless years.

  In those first weeks, I penetrated the first layer of its deception, the ability of not being seen. I tested my theory by asking some of my coworkers what they thought about the mansion and by the blank look on their faces, I realized they did not see it either.

  More than once, I’ve driven around the perimeter of its wooded property line, fenced in by a limestone wall. I found it surprising the land surrounding it was unsold. There was a day I understood that a magnet kept it bound, the land protected the mansion, and the house claimed it as part of itself, beyond the walls and windows. The sorcery that keeps it unseen, cloaks it entirely. This was the moment I started to consider the mansion was a sentient thing.

  One Sunday I woke up from a strange dream that I didn’t remember except for the flavor of sadness swirled with disappointment it left in its wake. The more I tried to recall it, the more it receded. It was tempting to lounge in my room, instead I pulled on my favorite jeans, a thick sweater, scarf and boots. Outside I smelled a fall tang in the air, and the winds brisked out of the north; the kind that hurries pedestrians along to escape its nip.

  Traffic was sparse, and I slipped through a drive through in a few minutes. I nursed a steaming cup of overpriced coffee and tooled around town completing errands. By late afternoon I gave in and headed to where I intended from the beginning; the house.

  Empty streets allowed me to stop my vehicle in front of it. Yellow leaves skittered across the road. I searched for something. My eyes slid from the chimney tops downward to what was once a white-washed picket fence, now brown with rot. I found nothing, and I drove forward following a bend in the road, the gloom of its jagged silhouette filling my rearview mirror.

  On impulse I circled around and parked my car across the street. A surreptitious glance to either side assured me no one spied on me from behind a tree. I crossed over and studied the entrance gate, propped at an angle to keep it from falling. Only one hinge was still in place. Weeds clogged the property and years of dead undergrowth covered the stone path leading to the entrance.

  I didn’t find any signs warning away trespassers. It didn’t need any. Mixed within my attraction a wave of repulsion halted my progress. Dwarfed by its bulk I realized it barred me from breaching another of its glamours used to keep intruders away.

  “If you leave now,” I thought to myself, “then afterwards you’ll make up excuses why you’re content with watching it from afar. Why don’t you admit you’re scared of it?”

  I glanced once more around, to confirm what I knew beforehand. The street yawned empty. The decaying gate gave way and the flimsy slats crumbled between my fingers. I propped it in place behind me, and I reminded myself there was no one to rush out of the yard and onto the street.

  I squinted up at the sun slanting through slow moving clouds that reflected in gray shades from the glass of the windows. I meandered to the foot of several leaf-filled steps that disappeared into the cool gloom of a wide entrance portico. The dark brown of the thick doors blended into the murkiness, and the odor of damp and crawly things drifted towards me.

  My body flushed in a wave of heat and fear
as I put one booted foot on the first step. On a level that escaped rationalization, I knew a rage-filled whirlpool swirled in the darkness, ready to push me backwards if I approached the doors.

  I avoided the confrontation when a narrow pathway leading to the side of the property lured me away. Walking stones skirted shriveled hedges that hugged the weather-stained walls. The walkway turned the corner and ended in what I recognized as a porte-cochere. A one story, gabled roof covered a filthy cement slab cracked in several areas. Once it protected occupants from inclement weather when alighting from a horse and carriage and later an automobile. Now it only sheltered a wooden bench resting lopsidedly on three legs as it leaned against a moldy playpen. They competed to be the first to collapse. A baby mobile clutched the edge of the playpen swinging back and forth when a flurry of air sighed through it. On impulse I turned the handle on the mobile several times. It played an unknown lullaby song, the music sounding tinny, remote and sad in the deserted side porch.

  Several stone steps lead to a door. I peered through the grimy glass of a window next to it. A sizable kitchen with a stained linoleum floor stretched off into the interior dimness of other rooms. Empty spaces stood in place of appliances, and cabinet doors left open displayed flowery liners speckled with dead insects.

  A small spider on the windowsill skittered away from my hand and into a crevice, and I retreated down the steps.

  I walked towards the back of the yellow and weedy yard. A rusting car imitated a collapsed dinosaur squatting under a canvas cover split and shredded by the elements. At the other end, a wooden shed drooped under years of leaves, its door lying on the ground. Inkiness stared at me from the interior. Paper and plastic debris littered the ground, reminders that the last occupants did not expect anyone else to come in their place.

  A lone dove cooed from somewhere overhead, and in the stillness I sensed a moment pregnant with expectation as if I was on the cusp of a discovery. It was this perception that urged me to approach the perimeter of the wooded copse.

  Here the leaves lay thick and desiccated, crunching under my steps like a carpet of dead crickets. The sun streamed a feeble light through the canopy overhead. A dank and wettish odor followed me until I came to a circular clearing. Sunbeams poured in over two lichen-riddled stone benches huddled outside a small graveyard encircled by remnants of a wrought-iron fence. Inside four headstones leaned haphazardly towards each other. Two were large and the surname Jaso was etched in bold letters at the top. Below one, Hector Devoted Husband and Father and the dates 1890-1919; the other, Clara and Infant Girl and the dates 1892-1919. A lamb decorated the two smaller memorials. There was Benjamin 1911-1919 and beside it Marie 1913 -1919. A begrimed statue of a weeping angel endured the elements in camaraderie with the headstones.

  The year 1919 had not been a good one for this family, and I wondered what happened to them.

  A whisperish giggle floated to where I stood. My eyes swept the shadowed woods, but they were empty. I meandered beyond the graveyard. With a rush of wings, a flock of birds startled by an unseen movement left the cover of a nearby tree. I lurched to a complete stop and held my breath expecting to discover a few kids having a good laugh on my account. There was no one.

  I steadied my breath and entered a path tunneled overhead by branches, and then I came to another clearing dominated by a stone monolith. I passed my hand over the smoothness of the towering guardian. Beyond it stood a stone cross etched with Celtic symbols. I kneeled before it and traced the engraving with my finger. Then my knee bumped up against something else.

  I brushed the leaves away, and underneath a plaque engraved with a winged angel saw daylight for the first time in years. St. Cera Orphanage & Home for Children Sheltered and Safe from Sorrow flowed across it in flowery cursive. I cleared away more undergrowth, which exposed several small stone crosses. Grooved in the small space were only first names, initials or dates.

  I stood up and with my foot uncovered more of them that stretched away in various directions. The conclusion was inescapable; this was a graveyard for orphans. I walked amongst the little tombstones, many of them with obliterated inscriptions. Underneath the shade of a large oak, one leaned against the trunk. A kneeling child angel etched in the middle draped its wings over the inscription Molly 1955 Beloved of SMR.

  My eyes took in the sad memorials to these children, and I stood there hypnotized as I read names, dates and sometimes only a simple cross. A chill wind swept into the clearing swirling brown, orange and red leaves around me. Dusk darkened the horizon. Retracing my steps through the path, I imagined a sigh of regret, followed by, “Please don’t leave.” murmured in the soft sough of the breeze. I didn’t have the nerve to look behind me.

  I cleared the woods, rushing past the Jaso’s graveyard and with hurried steps I headed towards the side portico with the eerie baby mobile. A sudden movement pulled my vision towards the grime-streaked kitchen window. I gasped almost tripping over a discarded gasoline container. For an instant, I saw a pale girl with pigtails and horn-rimmed glasses looking at me. When I righted myself, she had disappeared. My heart galloped in my chest and it took all my self-control to stop the urge to run back to my car.

  I crossed the street and with shaking hands fumbled for my keys inside my pocket. I slid behind the steering wheel and willed myself to keep staring ahead, not daring to look at the mansion which threw lengthening shadows across the road.

  Three days later, I parked at the local library. I realized I could not outrun the curiosity that followed me like a faithful puppy.

  I waved at Mrs. Killinger the librarian as I swept by the front desk. She only looked up and scrutinized me from over her glasses. I smiled back because I was used to this. I had visited the library since I was a kid and by now knew the truth about Mrs. K. It was a big show, she was a real sweetheart and a soft touch, but her role as the library dragon served her well over the years to keep kids in line.

  I headed towards the archive department. It did not take long to find out about the well-to-do but unfortunate Jasos. They had several interests in manufacturing and mills. The patriarch, Alphonse built an ornate mansion for his son Hector. He chose a hill above a large factory they owned in the town. While workers and craftsmen toiled to erect their new home, Hector, his wife and their children sailed to Europe to fill the vast emptiness of the mansion with furniture, paintings and decorations.

  The First World War ended in November 1918. Half way through a trip planned to last a year the Jasos boarded a ship and returned to America. The influenza pandemic raging in Europe chased them away. Another reason that shortened their stay was Clara’s third pregnancy. However, the Atlantic was not wide enough to safeguard the family as within a few weeks of arriving in the United States, the four fell ill of the Spanish Flu.

  The Sunset Gazette published a grainy picture of the four coffins being hoisted unto horse-drawn hearses. The fear of contagion was so great they buried the family behind the Jaso Mansion instead of the city cemetery. A short story described how the sumptuous estate was now a mausoleum for Hector Jaso’s family. Servants draped the unused furniture and sparkling chandeliers. They drew heavy curtains across the windows.

  Alphonse Jaso in his sorrow sealed the house for ten years.

  October 1929, the next mention of the Jasos appeared. The family’s fortune evaporated with the stock market crash and the factory closed. In 1930, an advertisement announced the auction of the house along with its luxurious, European furniture.

  Within a month, a front-page article announced the Sisters of Mercy were opening the St. Cera Orphanage and Home for Children in the stately home. Welcomed were unwanted babies born to unwed mothers, and others considered “feeble-minded”. I wondered if the precarious health of these children accounted for the memorials in the woods. One effect of the Great Depression was unwanted children.

  In 1948, an article grabbed my attention. It described where five, younger nuns and a mother superior arrived at the orpha
nage. They replaced the older sisters leaving for retirement. Pictured was the house with a manicured lawn and trimmed hedges. Six nuns posed on the edge of the portico, below them sat several children on the entrance steps. One nun stood out with a radiant smile on her face. She wore a white apron over her dark habit and held a baby in her arms. Next to her stood the mother superior; her lined face had a kind expression, and spindly glasses balanced on the thin crook of her nose.

  In later years I found only advertisements detailing festivals at the church to raise money for the orphanage, but nothing else of significance. When I came to 1955, the archives were missing. I approached the front desk and asked Mrs. Killinger to help me locate them. She only looked at me and then indicated I should follow her to the back. We returned to where I sat, and she found it wedged in the back behind other archives. She handed it over and stood next to me as I scrolled through it. I realized she didn’t move away. I looked up at her, wondering if something was wrong.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked drily.

  I tried to figure out what to tell her, without sounding like a trespassing nut. So I told the truth, omitting the part that I had become obsessed by the Jaso Mansion, and the disturbing face I saw at the kitchen window. I included the discovery of the graveyards in the woods.

  My story finished with “I need to find out what happened in 1955 to Molly and the other kids.”

  She stared at me for several moments and took me to a page on the archive for a day in February 1955. I wondered how she found it so easily, and it surprised me when she sat in the chair next to me. She pointed at a picture of an older, severe looking nun wearing horned rimmed glasses. Her non-existent lips pressed into a permanent look of disapproval. The short blurb announced her as the new Mother Superior in charge of the orphanage.