INTO THE DARKNESS
V.C. Andrews®
Available in paperback
March 2012
from Pocket Star Books
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Into the Darkness. . .
Prologue
He was looking at me from between the full ever
green hedges that separated our houses and properties. I don’t know why he thought I wouldn’t see him. Although, it was what Mom called a crown jewels day because there were no clouds and the bright sunshine made everything glimmer and glisten, even dull rocks and old cars with faded paint, scratches, nicks, and dents. The sun was behind me so I wasn’t blinded by its brilliance. In fact, it was like a spotlight reflecting off his twenty-four-karat-gold hair.
Even from where I was standing on our front porch, I could see he had blue-sapphire eyes. He had a very fair complexion, close to South Sea pearl, in fact, so that his face seemed to have a hazy, soft glow, which contrasted dramatically with the rich, deep green leaves of the hedges.
My first thought was that there must be something mentally wrong with him. Who else would stand there gaping at someone unashamedly? When someone stares at you and doesn’t care that you see him doing so, you’re certainly ill at ease, even fearful. You might be angry, but nowadays, especially, you don’t go picking fights with strangers. He wasn’t a complete stranger, of course. I knew he was our new neighbor.
I had no idea whether he had been spying on me from the very first day that his family had moved into their house, but this was the first time I had caught him doing so. Because the hedges were easily five and a half feet high and he was crouching a little, I estimated that he was at least five feet ten inches tall. He was wearing dark blue jeans and a long-sleeve khaki shirt with epaulets, the sort of shirt you might find in a store selling military uniforms.
For a few moments, I pretended not to have noticed him. I looked away and then sat on the wide blue moonstone porch railing and leaned back against the post as if I were posing for a sexy dramatic shot in a film. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath like when the doctor tells you to breathe in and hold it while he moves his stethoscope over your back. My breasts lifted against my thin, light jade-green sweater and I held the air in my lungs for nearly thirty seconds. Then, as if some film director were telling me to look more relaxed and more seductive for the shot, I released my breath and brought my right hand up to fluff my thick black-opal shoulder-length hair.
For as long as I could remember, my family always described most colors in terms of jewels. My parents owned a jewelry store that had been established by my paternal grandparents in Echo Lake, Oregon, more than forty years ago. My grandfather taught my father how to make original jewelry, and most people who saw them said that he created beautiful pieces. My mother ran the business end of our store and was the main salesperson. Dad called her his personal CFO. I helped out from the day I could handle credit-card sales. Rings, necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and pendants found their way into almost any conversation at our dinner table. Nothing was just good in our world; it was as good as gold. Many things had a silver lining, and if something glittered, it glittered like diamonds.
Mom said my hair was truly opal because it was just as unique as the jewel. The color and the pattern of opals could change with the angle of view, and she claimed that the same was true for my hair.
“No one that I know has hair that changes color as subtly as yours does, Amber, especially in the sunlight.” She took a deep breath and shook her head softly. “I swear, sweetheart, sometimes when I’m looking for you and see you from behind, I’m not sure it’s you. Just as I am about to call out to you, your name gets caught in my mouth as if my tongue had second thoughts.”
Dad wasn’t as dramatic about it, but he didn’t disagree. Mom was often histrionic. She had a bit of a Southern drawl and was a beautiful platinum brown-haired woman who had once gone for a screen test at Screen Gems Studios in Wilmington, North Carolina, when she was still in high school because a young assistant producer had convinced her she could be the next Natalie Wood. She didn’t get hired, but it was her moment in the sun. Dad was proud of her head shots and kept four of them on his desk at home.
I wondered if the boy next door would notice how my hair color subtly changed when I sat up and then walked slowly off the porch and into the sunlight. No one but my parents had ever mentioned it, although people did compliment me on the richness of my hair. I kept my arms folded just below my breasts and walked with my head down like someone in very deep thought, someone who was oblivious to anything and everything going on around her. I was barefoot and wore an ankle-length light blue cotton skirt and a gold ankle bracelet with tiny rubies. I was taking every step pensively as if the weight of a major decision were wrapped over my shoulders like a shawl full of great and desperate concerns. I guess I was always in some pose or another because I lived so much in my imagination. Dad always said I lived in my own movie.
“You’re just like all you kids nowadays, always in one sort of performance or another,” he said. “I watch the girls walking home from school. You could see everyone is glancing around to see ‘Who is looking at me?’ Those girls with green, blue, and orange hair and rings in their noses drive me nuts.”
“Don’t knock the nose rings, Gregory Taylor. We sell them,” Mom told him.
“Whatever happened to the au naturel look, the Ingrid Bergman look?” Dad cried, throwing up his arms. He had an artist’s long, muscular fingers and arms that would have no trouble grabbing the golden ring on a merry-go-round. He was six feet two, slim, with what Mom called a Clark Gable mustache and jet-black hair with thin smoky gray strands leaking along his temples. He was rarely out in the sunlight during the summer to get a tan, but he had a natural dark complexion that brought out the jade blue in his eyes.
“Ingrid who?” I asked. I knew who she was. Both Mom and I just liked teasing him and suggesting that he was showing his age.
At that point, he would shake his head and either sit and pout or leave the room, and Mom and I would laugh like two conspirators. He wasn’t really that angry, but it was part of the game we all liked to play. Dad was always claiming to be outnumbered and outvoted in his own home, whether it was a discussion of new furniture, dishes, drapes, or even cars. That comment would bring smiles but inevitably remind us that four years after I was born, Mom had miscarried in her seventh month. I would have had a brother. They seemed to have given up after that.
It was great having my parents’ full attention, but I would have liked to have had a brother or a sister. I told myself I wouldn’t fight with either or be jealous or be anything like most of the girls I knew when it came to their siblings. Their stories made it sound as if their homes rocked with screams and wails about unfair treatment or one being favored over the other. I could only wail or complain about myself to myself. It was like living in an echo chamber.
From what I could tell, the boy next door probably was an only child, too. I was certainly not spying on him and his parents, but my bedroom window looked out over the hedges at his house, and I couldn’t help but see the goings-on. Days before, I was in my bedroom reading one of the books on my summer requirement list when I heard the truck arrive and saw the men begin to unload cartons. I had never really been in the house since the last people living there had left, but I recalled Dad saying they had left furniture.
Seeing new neighbors suddenly move in was a great surprise. My parents had never mentioned the neighboring house being sold or rented. No one had, in fact, and news like that in a community as small as ours usually made headlines. There were just too many busybodies to let a tidbit like that go unrevealed.
At first, I didn’t even see that the neighbors had a son. His parents appeared along with the truck and the men. I didn’t get that good a look at them, but the woman looked tall and very thin. She kept her opened left hand over the left side of her face, like someone who didn’t want to be recognized, and hurried into the house as if she were caught in a cold downpour of rain and hail. Her husband was about the same height, balding, and I thought a little chubby, with an agate-brown goatee and glasses with frames as thick as silver dollars that caught the sunlight. He walked more slowly, moving like someone in deep thought. I wondered when they had first come around to look at the house. It had to have been a very quick decision.
After the movers began to bring things into the house, the boy suddenly appeared, as if he had been pouting in the backseat like someone who had been forced to come along. I didn’t get that good a look at him, either. He had his head down and also walked quickly, but my first thought was that he was probably a spoiled only child, pouting, angry about having to leave his school and friends. Of course, he could have an older sister who was either at a college summer session or perhaps studying abroad.
I watched on and off as the move-in continued, the men carrying in clothing and some small appliances. It didn’t take them very long. I waited to see more of the neighbors. No one emerged, and I didn’t see the boy again until this day. As a matter of fact, I didn’t see any of them. It was as if they had been swallowed up by the house. The moving men came out and drove off only an hour or so later. Immediately, it grew as quiet as it had been. None of the windows was opened, and no lights were turned on. One might think they had gone in the front door and out the back, never to be seen or heard from again.