The Curse of Thelonious [✓]

eleven

Mariha still looked terrible – something they had learned grief did to you – but it was far better than the previous week. Her dark skin was no longer tinged with a dreary grey and her hair was neatly tied in a bun. She was lying on the sofa with a blanket nestled around her, her eyes somewhat watery. “There’s dinner in the microwave for you darling, make sure you eat something. You’re beginning to look too thin,” she muttered before exhaustion took over and she drifted off into a deep slumber.

Lera managed a smile although her heart broke at seeing her strong mother so vulnerable. “Thanks mama,” she whispered as she leaned to kiss her mother’s cheek and crept to the kitchen. Filling a plate of lasagna and grabbing two forks, she headed upstairs. After she had double checked that her bedroom door was locked, Lera opened the window and stuck her head out. “C’mon up,” she said as Atlas began to climb the rusty ladder, midnight hair flickering against his inky eyes.

They sat on her bed and Lera had to force him to eat with her. He was gaping at the food in bewilderment and Lera’s heart tugged at his confused expression. He’d clearly never had lasagna before and she wanted to cry at how deprived he was.

“So I found something interesting today,” she began as he nervously nibbled on the cheese. “Apparently there was some big king guy whose name was Walho and get this, there was a newspaper article about his last descendant! It was some woman called Harriet Wakelin and it was quite an old paper so she probably had some more kids or whatever. Maybe we could find out if her family is still existent and figure out what they’ve got to do with all the freaky deaths?”

Atlas looked intrigued and he almost clapped with joy at her last sentence. He had been scared they wouldn’t be able to find anything and more people would be hurt. Carefully shoving a forkful of lasagna into his mouth, he leant over to reach Lera’s laptop which was open on her desk.

Going on to a random baby name website, he searched for the meaning of Wakelin with deep curiosity. “Look at this,” he murmured, pointing to the screen as he began to read out loud. “The ancient name Wakelin is of 1066 Norman-French origins in England, deriving from the pre eighth century name Walho.”

Lera pushed away her plate, lasagna forgotten, as she skimmed through the paragraphs. “The first recorded spelling of the family name Wakelin was in 1221 during the reign of King Henry the third. There have been many well-known people with the surname throughout history but within the twenty first century, the name belongs to one family alone,” she recited from the website.

Before he could comment, they heard the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps. “Lera?” they heard her father call out, as their eyes grew wide in panic.

“Shit!” Lera whispered, almost jumping in alarm. Without a moments thought, she quickly grabbed hold of Atlas from his faded grey t-shirt and shoved him inside her wardrobe, grateful it was much larger than her one in London.

Grabbing hold of her wide-tooth comb on her desk in order to pretend she’d been doing her hair, Lera opened the door. “Yep dad?” she asked, as he weakly smiled. Erik sighed, as he made his way to his daughters’ bed and sat down.

“Darling, I know this is hard for you, as it is for all of us but I really need you to help me do something. I want to– I need you to help me sort out Anya’s room,” he said, bracing himself for her reaction.

Lera felt the blood drain from her face and her body went slack. “What!” she exploded, her hands trembling. She knew what he was asking, her father probably just wanted to do it so his wife wouldn’t have to. She wanted to scream and shout and throw something but there was no use. The deep purple eye bags contrasting against her father’s pale skin was enough to tell her how hard this was for him. “I don’t want to,” she whispered, her eyes glossy. “It will mean that it’s real, that she’s not coming back.”

Erik wrapped an arm around his daughter and she allowed him to pull her close. Soft sobs erupted from her body despite Lera trying to hold them back. “I know, I know darling. I don’t want to either, of course I don’t but the longer we’re putting it off, the more it’s hurting. Anya wouldn’t want us being so miserable like this, you know that, I cant let your mother turn her room into some sort of shrine like I know she will if we continue refusing to accept it.”

“Okay,” Lera mumbled, not being able to argue with her father. “Not today though, I have a lot of homework.”

It wasn’t true of course; her teachers had avoided giving her too much work, pity painted across their faces. Just as her father left her room in order to wake up his wife, Lera ran after him. Her father knew everyone and she knew he may be able to help her with the question bouncing around her mind.

“Wait, Dad?” Lera asked when she reached him on the stairs. Erik turned around to his daughter – his only daughter now – and tried not to wince at the way she looked so alike to Anya.

“Yes Lera darling?” he asked, rubbing the deep mauve bags under his eyes. Lera hesitated. She wanted to know badly but at the same time she was scared of finding out what was happening in Clearford. If anyone knew anything about the name Wakelin however, it would be her father; it always seemed as though he knew everything about everyone. “Have you ever heard of anyone surnamed Wakelin?” she asked, biting her lips subconsciously. “It’s– it’s um for my school project.”

Erik ran a hand through his blonde hair, which was much limper than usual. “Hmmm, I think that was Colette’s name. Yes, that’s it, it sounds very familiar. Colette Wakelin.” Lera’s eyebrows rose in confusion. She felt as though she should have recognised the name Colette but couldn’t recall it. When her father realised she didn’t know who he was talking about, he continued.

“Colette. The young woman Manning Sinclair murdered all those years ago. I think it’s been about sixteen or seventeen years now, yes something like that, you girls were only babies at the time.” His voice cracked on girls and she felt terrible asking him but it was crucial information. For a minute she was confused until it the pieces put themselves together in her mind, crushing her like a freight train.

“You mean she was Atlas’s mum?” she asked, flabbergasted at this newfound information. When her dad nodded, she thanked him and began walking back to her room, barely concentrating on where she was going until she reached her door.

Atlas saw the conflict in her eyes from where he was standing and he tilted his head slightly as she locked the door. “What happened?” he asked quietly in case her father was still nearby. She only put out a hand in a ‘wait’ motion and sunk onto her bed, her mind reeling. How the hell was she supposed to tell him? There wasn’t really anything she could do, she couldn’t sugar coat it for his sake although she wanted to. There were lives at stake.

“Wakelin. Wakelin was– it was your mums surname,” she whispered.

He flinched so deeply that she felt guilt rush through her veins. She should have worded that better! Shit. His voice was raspy and tremendously outraged. “What?!” he almost exploded.

She shrugged her shoulders helplessly, not wanting to repeat her words. “So what if– what if it does have something to do with me then?” he muttered, his voice dropping with what she knew was sadness. “What if I really am the reason they’re all dead like everyone says?”

She shifted her body closer and rubbed her shoulder against his in a reassuring manner. “It’s not your fault at all! Don’t say that!”

He ignored her and continued, his features twisting in pain as he did so. “What if I’m what caused them all to die? I don’t want to be a killer! I don’t want to be like him!” he spat out, fury in the last word.

His father was a monster and his biggest fear was that he would turn out the same – after all, they shared the same blood.