Blood Juniper A Vampire Tale - Volume 1 Chapter 65 The Secret Way Part 2

I squeeze into the hole, holding my breath and praying no bugs are creeping around inside. I rush through the space on my hands and knees crawling as fast as I can. It scraps along my ruined jeans and the back of my shirt, tugging strands of hair.

To my relief it widens almost immediately. I can breathe again. I see the end where I can stand upright, I’m overzealous and overjoyed.

“Yes! Freedom!” I slide out of the slot like puddy, melting onto the floor not caring that it’s filthy. Luckily, there’s no broken glass.

I get up and dust myself off. It’s really dark in this little dug out. There are some bricks cemented in but it’s mostly hard dirt like a fox burrow.

A voice slithers from behind, “Do you hold confined spaces in contempt, my dear?”

I jump with a slight yelp, I can only take so much.

I growl, “June I swear I’m going to hurt you if you keep doing that.”

I might hurt her anyway for showing me this damn ‘secret’, dragging me through sewers and spiderwebs and holes.

She sniggers as a nasty spider scuttles from her hair down her temple. I recoil and practically squawk.

June flicks the black spider away with a leisurely hand, growing evermore entertained with my squeamish reactions.

I shudder, shaking like a wet dog to make sure nothing undesirable is on me. She waltzes into the dark to lead me into more unknown. ‘No more crawling Please.’

The ceiling becomes progressively shorter to a crouching point and I start to despair.

“And here we are,” she announces after a good amount of walking, coming to a dead end.

I look around at every wall. There’s no door. It’s seriously nothing.

Before I can ask she slides one loose brick from the wall and retrieves a key. There’s a wooden panel above her head, she fits the key into a tiny lock with no handle.

She replaces the key and brick then throws back the trap door in a single sweep. She stands upright and lifts herself. Tiny, dingy feet disappear through the opening.

My head pops though the cut out like an inspecting groundhog. It looks like someone’s cellar.

I don’t waste anymore time, thrilled to be out of the tunnels. I bounce out of the hole and sigh out sharply, relishing the liberation from that gut wrenching place.

“Home, sweet home,” June muses.

Hey! That’s the washer, this is June’s bas.e.m.e.nt. What the hell?

“How!” I exclaim, feeling like Alice coming back from the rabbit hole.

“An underground labyrinth. Remarkable, isn’t it?” she says, locking the door and replacing the rug, “It’s as if this place was contrived for creatures of the night.”

“Alright, that’s pretty cool.”

I’ll admit it’s kind of awesome that this house has a trap door that leads to an underground network… Filled with bugs and grime. Neat yet scary. Like she said, ‘convenient’.

I find myself staring at that foul smelling door, the only remaining locked door in the bas.e.m.e.nt. I can’t help but ask, “What’s in that room?”

“From what I’ve gathered while spending time together, the room will not be to your fancy.”

I glance at the door then back at her, “Is it full of spiders?”

She chuckles, “Every place is full of spiders. Not that they can hurt us.”

“You don’t want to tell me,” I state.

June floats over to the sinister door, lifting on her tiptoes to retrieve a key from the frame and tosses it to me, “It’s a dirt chamber that I make use of occasionally.”

The key was on the door frame this entire time. ‘Wow’

I stare at her, rolling the old fashioned key in my hand. She’s being vague, maybe it’s her way of sparing me. I’m so damn inquisitive it’s a problem.

I switch to a safer question I’m more interested in having answered. One that may guard me from the dangerous side of my insatiable curiosity, “Who is Dominic?”

She bows her head slightly examining me and blinks once like a reptile. One lid waving after the other.

“I was under the impression if I waited till we got home, you’d explain.”

She seems to ponder that for a long time.

“Why are you so secretive?” I bem.o.a.n, glancing at the floor, “I wish you would trust me.”

I look back to see her still staring at me, contemplating.

She responds slowly, “My trust in you is not the affair. Furthermore, I do not believe I can properly convey who he is.”

She always makes things so complicated. I toss the gawdy key back to her and she snatches it out of the air without looking. I will resist the dirt room for tonight.

“Well,” I try to start with the simple stuff, talking to her is like playing twenty questions, “Do you love him?”

Her emotions darken and recede. She murmurs, smiling bitterly, “Do you believe me capable of such a thing?”

Even the simplest things become convoluted, honestly, “Yes why wouldn’t you be?”

“What separates love from obsession?” she lingers on the example, “L.u.s.t?” she waves a flagrant hand, “A selfish desire to sate one’s loneliness?”

The question seems more rhetorical but I try and answer it anyway, “I don’t think love demands someone be without flaws, June. It just starts with caring about someone.”

That distinct sadness creeps around my ankles like a mist but it doesn’t show on her face. She trots past me to the stairwell, replying, “Then I am a most imperfect lover.”

Is Juniper afraid to love? My sympathy unintentionally spills out to reach for her, attempting to comfort. Her vulnerable energy recoils like a threatened garden snake. Alright then, baby steps.

“Your interest is sincere yet unclouded by ulterior motives,” she considers, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye then decides, “Very well, Ashlen. I will present what I fail to exemplify.”

With a woosh of air she vanishes up the stairs and I dart up after her. I’m not sure if she wanted me to follow or stay put but I’m *not* waiting in this bas.e.m.e.nt by myself.

I take the stairs two at a time and spy her at the end of the hall unlocking the other mysterious room with the large keyhole by the ballroom.

I hustle down the corridor and slip inside with June as she opens it. Now, this is something I wanted to see!

The room has rich red furnishing and a nice smell from high quality wood. The study chair and loveseat are upholstered with the same cranberry color, the swirling wood is carved with care around the arms and backs of both seats. The room is regal yet cozy. A place to curl up with a good book by a fireplace.

I immediately stroll over to the massive bookshelf filled with an array of unique items and shiny things. I wipe my hands on my dirty jeans before touching the dust covered items. I should ask but I can’t help myself. June doesn’t seem to mind anyway, she’s not stopping me.

I pick up a plump bottle with a ship inside. The top half is caked with a thick layer of grey along with most of the items on this shelf. I rub away the filth, marveling at the tiny details on the miniature mast and flags. How do they get these things in the bottle anyway?

“Wow, it’s like a museum,” I remark, shifting my attention to a few bronze bust figure heads of people I don’t recognize.

She hums in acknowledgment, sitting herself at the long desk and wheeling a small draw forward.

I count at least a dozen candles, a small wind up clock, a cookie jar, an inkwell and quill, and things I’ve never seen before. It’s a treasure trove of clutter!

“You have a lot of neat things,” I trace the horn on a phonograph record player, “I don’t even know what some of this is for. Did you use these back in the day?”

“Many of these possessions belonged to the previous owner of this house,” she says, running her fingers along a worn hardcover book she pulled from the desk drawer. The scent of the old yellowed paper sweeps the air as the first crispy page flops aside.

I groan, “Please, don’t tell me you murdered the people who used to live in this house.”

She studies my expression and a coy half smirk forms on her lips.

I shake my head pinching my mouth in disapproval. I pick up a music box and twist the key frowning at her.

“My, you really do frown upon my habits. Take pleasure in the knowledge that our engagement was mutually suited.”

I tilt my head, easing the tension in the pout. I open the music box which chimes it’s somber melody in lullaby tinkling.

“He was elderly and nearly blind. Weary of the world,” she stares at the floor thoughtfully pausing, listening to the song, “I think he knew”

She doesn’t finish her sentence.

I set down the box, letting it play, “Knew what?”

“That I could grant him his last wish.”

I blink in shock, “He wanted to *die*?”

Her eyelashes whisk her cheeks as her lids lower with a soft bow of her head, “That and the companionship of one who could understand. There are few things so bitter than loneliness.”

I examine her serene face with a bit of surprise. It seems Juniper is, in her own way, capable of compassion.

She twirls the open book to face me. There’s a loose stained square sticking out between the crease at the center binding. She hands the old book to me before I can speculate too thoroughly.

I take the antique yet sturdy text with both hands and examine the open page, “Is this a poem?”

“Indeed it is, my favorite poem by Christina Rosetti,” her eyes are still closed, taking in the tiny bell melody.

I take the loose paper marking the page before reading the poem. The sheet is small yet thick, soft like worn leather. It’s a very old photograph, heavily creased on one side. It’s the color of true sepia, a faded black and white tone.

The photo is a portrait of a man and woman, the shadows and dark clothing contrast harshly against the couple’s fair complexion.

The woman is unfamiliar. I’ve haven’t seen her before but I gasp as I really study the man.

I can’t help but exclaim my discovery, “That’s Dominic!”

I stare back at Juniper. Her expression is calm and unreadable. The music coming from the relic box starts to slow as she leans back into the study chair.

“How?” I inquire, “This picture looks really old and he looks the same age if not younger than this.”

I study the image again to be sure I’m not mistaken. Nope, it’s the spitting image of Dominic except for the thick lumberjack beard and thin circular spectacles on his face. The minor differences prevented me from recognizing him at first but now I can’t unsee it, that’s definitely him.

“No… Dominic smells human. He *is* human, isn’t he?”

“That isn’t Dominic.”

I stare back at her puzzled, “Uh, is this his relative or ancestor or something?”

She shakes her head, “His name was Jack Hemlock. No blood relation to Dominic Shaffer. They are separated not only by time but a continent.”

I gape at the picture. It could be Dominic’s identical twin, “You said ‘was’. Does that mean Jack is…”

“Deceased, murdered,” the words are finite. Both her face and our connection are utterly blank, “Before he was Dominic or Jack his name was Peter Hackeman. Peter was also taken young.”

“What are you saying? That Dominic is alive again? Like,” I grope for a way to explain and now understand why June seemed to be elusive, “Reincarnated?”

I see the barest hint of a ‘yes’ in her eyes. She doesn’t have to say it, she’s convinced of it.

“But,” I shake my head, squinting at the picture and trying to deny the resemblance, “That’s impossible.”

“Is it?” she asks plainly, “As impossible as you or I living without sunlight, food nor a beating heart.”

I guess she has a point.

We both go quiet, almost somber. The tings and pangs of the music box are now deliberate and passive. The threat of remorse tickles the air.

I move my attention from the photograph to the poem. June seems to read it right on cue. She stares hard at the empty center of the room. Something visible to her alone.

She recites the printed poem by memory;

“Unmindful of the roses,

Unmindful of the thorn,

A reaper tired reposes

Among his gathered corn:

So might I, till the morn!

Cold as the cold Decembers,

Past as the days that set,

While only one remembers

And all the rest forget,–

But one remembers yet.”