The Blackstone Chronicles

Prologue

The previous day’s clouds had long since swept out to sea, and a full moon stood high in the sky. Atop North Hill the Asylum was silhouetted against a sky sparkling with the glitter of millions of stars while the night itself seemed infused with a silvery glow.
No one, though, was awake to see it, save a single dark figure that moved through the ruptured stone wall into the silent building that had stood empty for nearly forty years. Oblivious to the beauty of the night, that lone figure moved silently, intent on finding a single chamber hidden within the warren of rooms enclosed by the cold stone walls.
The figure progressed steadily through the darkness, finding its way as surely through those rooms that were utterly devoid of light as it did through those whose dirtencrusted windows admitted just enough moonlight to illuminate their walls and doors.
The path the figure took weaved back and forth, as if it were threading its way through groupings of furniture, although each room was bare, until it came at last to a small, hidden cubicle. Others would have passed it by, for its entrance was concealed behind a panel, the sole illumination provided by the few rays of moonlight that crept through a single small window, which itself was all but invisible from beyond the Asylum’s walls.
The lack of light in the chamber had no more effect on the dark-clad figure than had the blackness of the rooms through which it had already passed, for it was as familiar with the size and shape of this room as it was with the others.
Small and square, the hidden cubicle was lined with shelves, each of which contained numerous items. A museum, if you will, of the Asylum’s past, containing an eclectic collection of souvenirs, the long-forgotten possessions of those who had passed through its chambers.
The figure moved from shelf to shelf, touching one artifact after another, remembering the past and the people to whom these things had once been dear.
A pair of eyes glinted in the darkness, catching the figure’s attention. The memory attached to these eyes was bright and clear.
As clear as if it had happened only yesterday …
The child sat on her mother’s lap, watching in the mirror as her mother brushed her hair, listening as her mother sang to her.
But a third face appeared in the mirror as well, for the little girl held a doll, and anyone who saw the three of them together would have noticed the resemblance.
All three—the doll, the child, and the mother—had long blond hair framing delicate, oval faces.
All three had the same lovely blue eyes.
All their cheeks glowed with rouge, and their lips shone brightly with scarlet gloss.
As the brush moved through the child’s hair in long and even strokes, so also did the brush in the child’s hand mimic the motions of the mother, moving through the hair of the doll with the same single-minded affection that flowed from the mother.
As her mother sang softly, the child hummed, contentedly crooning to her doll as her mother crooned to her.
Through the open window the gentle sounds of the summer afternoon lulled them. In the street, half a dozen of the neighbor boys were playing a pickup game of baseball, and in the next block the melody of the ice cream truck chimed its tune.
The mother and child were barely aware of it, so content were they in their own little world.
Then, from downstairs, the sound of the front door slamming interrupted their idyll, and as heavy footsteps thudded on the stairs, the mother began wiping the lipstick from the child’s face.
The child twisted away, dropping the brush with which she’d been stroking her doll’s hair, but clutching the doll itself close to her chest. “No! I like it!” the child protested, but still the mother tried to wipe away the gloss.
Then the child’s father was towering in the bedroom doorway, his face flushed with anger. When he spoke, it was with a voice so loud and harsh that both mother and child shrank away from him.
“This was not to happen again!”
The mother’s eyes darted around the room as if she was seeking some avenue of escape. Finding none, she finally spoke, her voice breaking. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I couldn’t help it. I—”
“No more,” her husband told her.
Again the mother’s eyes darted wildly around the room. “Of course. I promise. This time—”
“This time is the last time,” her husband said. Striding into the room, he swept the child from her lap, his arms closing around fragile shoulders. Though his wife reached up as if to take the child back, he moved out of her reach. “No more,” he repeated. “Didn’t I tell you what would happen if this continued?”
Now the woman’s eyes filled with panic, and she rose to her feet. “No!” she pleaded. “Oh, God, don’t! Please don’t!”
“It’s too late,” the man told her. “You leave me no choice.”
Pulling the doll from the child’s arms, he tossed it onto the bed. Then, ignoring the child’s shrieks, he carried her out of the bedroom and started downstairs. Moving down the long central hall on the lower floor, he passed through the butler’s pantry and the large kitchen, where the cook, frozen in silence, watched as he strode toward the back door. But before he could open it, his wife appeared, holding the doll.
“Please,” she begged. “Let her take it. She loves it so. As much as I love her.”
The man hesitated, and for a moment it seemed as if he would refuse. But as his child cried out in anguish and reached for the doll, he relented.
The woman watched helplessly as her husband carried her child out of the house. Instinctively, she knew she would never see her child again. And she would never be allowed to have another.
The man carried the child through the great oak doors of the Asylum, and finally set the small, trembling figure on her feet. A matron waited, and she now knelt in front of the child.
“Such a pretty little thing,” she said. As the child, holding her doll, sobbed, the matron looked up at the man. “Is this all she brought with her?”
“It’s more than will be necessary,” the man replied. “If anything else is ever needed, please let my office know.” He looked down at his child for a moment that stretched out so long a spark of hope glowed briefly in the child’s eyes. Finally, he shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Sorry for what she did, and sorry you let her do it. Now there is no other way.” Without touching his child again, the man turned and strode through the enormous doors.
Without being told, the child knew she would never see her father again.
When they were alone, the matron took her by the hand and led her through a long hallway and then up some stairs. There was another long hallway, and finally she was led into a room.
Not nearly as nice as her room at home.
This room was small, and though there was a window, it was covered with heavy metal mesh.
There was a bed, but nothing like the pretty four-poster she had at home.
There was a chair, but nothing like the rocking chair her mother had painted in her favorite shade of blue.
There was a dresser, but it was painted an ugly brown she knew her mother would have hated.
“This will be your room,” the matron told her.
The child said nothing.
The matron went to the dresser and took out a plain cotton dress that looked nothing like the pretty things her mother had given her. There was also a pair of panties, and some socks that had turned an ugly gray color. “And these will be your clothes. Put them on, please.”
The child hesitated, then did as the matron had instructed. Taking off the frilly pinafore in which her mother had dressed her that morning, she lay it carefully on the bed so as not to wrinkle it. Then she pulled off her underthings, and was about to put on the panties when she heard the matron utter a strange sound. Looking up, she saw the woman staring down at her naked body, her eyes wide.
“Did I do something wrong?” the child asked, speaking for the first time.
The matron hesitated, then shook her head. “No, child, of course you didn’t. But we got you the wrong clothes, didn’t we? Little boys don’t wear dresses, do they?” The matron picked up the doll. “And they certainly don’t play with dolls. We’ll get rid of this right now.”
The child screamed in protest, then fell sobbing to the bed, but it did no good. The matron took the doll away. The child would never see it again.
Nor would anyone beyond the Asylum’s walls ever see the child again.
The dark figure cradled the doll, gazing into its porcelain face in the moonlight, stroking its long blond hair, remembering how it had come to be here. And knowing to whom it must now be given.…