The prologue and first chapter of ILAD have been posted here for you to enjoy. Subsequent chapters will be found at Wowio.com

1954, August 5th.

The black Citroen sedan rounded the bend and almost immediately came to a halt. A large, rout-iron gate stood in its path, covered in weeds and rust. The driver of the car, a tall, handsome man of 45 with with jet black hair and just a hint of grey at his temples, rolled down his window to survey the area. The gate seemed to be at least 100 years old; rust caked each bar and the chain that encircled them sprouted several different weeds. Beyond the gate stood an old mansion; crumbling from years of neglect.

"This is it, Mother. We can't drive through this."

An elderly woman in black, clutching a box of papers and a bouquet of flowers, looked up at her son. "Then we'll walk."
"Oh, Mother, you can't possibly make it through all this underbrush!" A second woman, slight in build with icy blue eyes and the same black hair as the driver, peeked her head out the car window and squinted in the sun at their obstacle.

"We're going," the old woman replied anxiously. "We've kept your father waiting long enough."

The man and woman looked at each other, and then over at the older woman, who had already hobbled over to the gate and started to pick at the lock. The man rushed over to help his mother, but she smacked his hand away. "Charles, I know what I'm doing, dear," she said with a tired lilt in her voice. Within a few minutes, the rusted lock gave way and the chains fell to the ground with a muffled thud. Charles reluctantly pushed the gate open as far as he could; scattered branches and tall grass made it difficult. The older woman stood there for a moment, staring ahead at the abandoned mansion, with its broken windows and vine-covered walls. A chill took the air around her as she stepped inside the grounds.

Her children held back for a minute as she started walking towards the door. Charles cleared his throat in effort to break the awkward silence, and then headed towards his mother. He glanced back at his sister and asked, "Claire, are you coming?"

Claire fiddled with a small gold chain around her neck as if a child. "I'm not sure. Maybe I'll just wait out here for the realtor to arrive," she said.

"Suit yourself, but you've got about two hours to kill," Charles replied, and helped his mother up the steps to the front door. The door was locked, but the wood around the hardware had rotted, so Charles was able to push the door in with a gentle shove of his hand. The two disappeared into the home, leaving Claire alone in the woods. The wind started blowing all around her and leaves spun in circles at her feet. Off in the distance, a bird called; a twig snapped. Claire looked back at the car, and then ahead to the house. "Oh, I'll be so happy when this place is sold!" she muttered to herself, and hurried inside after her mother and brother.

Victoria Gracey looked around her. The foyer of her childhood home was covered in dust and grime from the passing years. Scattered leaves and broken glass littered the black and white tiled floor. The dark cherry wood paneling on the walls were pockmarked with wormholes, and the air was thick with dust and a faint, sweet smell. Straight ahead, two steps down, was the old sitting room. The once-elegant Victorian furniture lay scattered about--chairs in pieces, tables overturned. The dining table was covered in a thick blanket of dust; underneath a faint glint of silverware could be seen.

"It looks like it's been vandalized, Mother," Charles stated, pulling out a small notepad from his back pocket. "Do you think that will lower the selling price?"

"It hasn't been vandalized, Charles," Victoria said, in a matter-of-fact tone, "I left it like this."

Charles once again exchanged glances with his sister, who had been standing off to the side wringing her hands. "Mother, you can't be serious! I know you said when you moved away you didn't bring anything with you, but . . . " Claire trailed off as she moved toward something that caught her eye. She stepped down into the living area and walked over to a large painting hanging over the mantelpiece of the fireplace. Cobwebs covered each corner, but the faces in the painting were still visible after all these years: a tall, regal-looking gentleman with broad shoulders and silver dappling his black hair, standing next to a woman in a long, lace-flocked white gown. Her almond-shaped eyes were ice-blue, and they stared back at Claire with a complacent fierceness. With the couple stood two small children of about the same age; a boy and girl, both with black hair and the same piercing eyes, dressed in their Sunday best.

"Ah . . . I remember when we had to pose for that painting," Victoria smiled faintly as she hobbled over to join her daughter. "Mother and Father--your grandparents--were exceptionally nice that day . . ."

Claire stood there silently. Her mother never spoke of their grandparents; at least not for a very long time. And while Victoria had held onto this childhood home of hers for almost 50 years, she had not once stepped foot back inside it after she left it. Now that she was getting on in years and had a bad heart, her children had convinced her to finally give it up, and had come here to meet with a realtor to negotiate.

Charles walked over to where they were standing. He looked up at the painting. "What would you want to do with items like this, Mother?"

"Burn it," Victoria replied, and turned around to walk away. "It's of no use to me now."

Charles sighed; his mother had gotten very unreasonable these past few months.

The fact that Charles and Claire were fathered by their own uncle was not a secret to them. Victoria had made it very clear from the beginning that their family had some skeletons in their closet, but to never feel bad about who they were and where they came from. To the world it was just a young single mother and her twin children, trying to make ends meet. To Claire Gracey, it was a nightmare. Imagine never being able to tell her husband or children about her father! Claire's embarrassment over being the bastard child of her mother's brother gave her such a complex that she went so far as to hide any mementos of her family whenever anyone came calling to her home.
Charles took the news a bit better when he had heard it. He still didn't know the details; even at 45 he was still his mother's son and he supposed she felt the need to keep some things private. However, Charles seemed to understand that there was a lot more to his mother's life than she let on, and until proven otherwise, Charles referred to any images of Uncle Victor as his father.

Claire turned away from the painting to speak to her mother, but she was not there. "Mother?" Claire called out. She stepped over a pile of broken glass and porcelain towards the kitchen. Charles walked over to the stairs that led to the second and third floors of the mansion. "Mother, where are you?"

"Honestly, where could she have gotten off to in such a short amount of time?" Claire wondered. She peeked inside the kitchen but immediately stepped back as a small mouse scurried across her foot. "I don't believe this! How could she just leave this place . . . ?" She turned around to face her brother, but he was gone, too. "Oh, is this some sort of joke? Leave me in here alone so I get frightened?" Claire never liked the prospect of stepping foot inside this home to begin with. Over the years she had grown so suspicious of her mother's past that she feared there was something wrong with the home, and her fears were not without merit. Many times when the children were younger they asked to see the home where Victoria grew up, and many times Victoria tried to take the trip out of the town they lived in to show them, but every time she had to turn around.

One November when the children were around eight years old, they got so far as to make out the house's silhouette against the stark white sky. Claire immediately honed in on what seemed to be roses growing on the side of the building. An avid admirer of flowers, and happy they had survived the oncoming winter's chill, she rushed towards the gate to be let in so she could smell those pretty blooms. Charles clamored after her, saying something about wanting to see their father. At that moment, however, Victoria said something that made both children stop dead in their tracks. Claire turned around to face her mother with eyes wide as saucers. She could see Charles holding back a sniffle and staring at the ground. Claire looked back at the house, and then ran over to her mother in tears. They never returned to the home again.

Something about that house was so painful for her that Victoria just could not take the plunge.

That something painful was what had finally brought Victoria back to the mansion after all these years.

Claire walked back towards the center of the living area. It was then she looked out the picture window in the back of the room--it overlooked a stone wall and a garden. Victoria was kneeling near the wall, and Charles was walking up to her. Claire's heart jumped into her throat. She knew what they were looking at.

The one thing above all that scared Claire about this home was not the building itself. It was what was in that garden. Once a vision of loveliness, with red rose bushes and elm trees, the garden was now in shambles. The weeds had overtaken the stone wall that separated it from the rest of the backyard. Wild, untended roses poked through the brush with thorns that bit. It wasn't the overgrown plantlife that scared Claire, however. It was what was under those plants.

This garden was the final resting place of their father, Victor.

Victor had passed away before his children had been born. Charles and Claire never knew what he was like, save for what Victoria told them. "He was a good man, who would do anything to protect the ones he loved," Victoria would say, with such a fondness in her voice. Where did Father go? When can we see him? How come he's not here? Questions like these flooded the afternoons for days upon months upon years. Eventually, however, as the children grew older, they grew more interested in other things--Charles with his reading and school clubs, and Claire with her boys and fashion. In the back of Victoria's mind, she knew that one day she'd have to tell them everything, but gladly waited as long as she could.

Claire slowly walked out through the back door to the entrance of the garden. Why did she agree to come here with them? She had told herself long ago she didn't want to be associated with this place anymore. What was this feeling she had deep inside the pit of her stomach? Just the thought of the rotted corpse of her father, just three feet away from her under that plain marker scared her to no end . . . Yet, she couldn't turn away.

She took a couple of steps towards her brother and mother; just within earshot. "Mother," she could hear Charles say, "if you want to hold off on selling the house, we can. We can take as long as you like."

Victoria was kneeling in front of the marker. The flowers she had brought were splayed out at her knees, as if she had dropped them. The box of papers she had brought was still clutched in her frail arms.
"No, no . . . it's time to say goodbye," Victoria said, looking up at her son, and then back down to the marker. "A proper goodbye."

To read Chapter 2 of this story, go to Wowio to download!