Epilogue

Six months later, the Portland rain tapped a gentle rhythm against the windows of their apartment. Claire sat at her desk, fingers poised over her laptop keyboard, the cursor blinking at the top of a blank document. Outside, the evergreens swayed in the wind, the untamed wilderness very different from the manicured lawns and geometric precision of Cedar Lane.

She'd been putting this off for months. The therapist she'd started seeing had suggested writing about her experiences might help process the trauma.  Until now, Claire hadn't been able to bring herself to revisit those memories. 

Across their small living room, a stack of college brochures sat on the coffee table, Reed College's prospectus on top. Ethan had been accepted with a small scholarship, his application essay on "Modern Mythologies and Their Classical Roots" impressing the admissions committee. He'd chosen to focus on mythology and ancient literature; the closest he could get to studying the occult in an academic setting.  Claire had banked the money from both David’s life insurance policy and the homeowner’s policy for the Cedar Lane house.  She lived simply.  They weren’t wealthy, but they could afford the steep tuition at the private college comfortably.

"Mom, did you see my acceptance letter came from the pre-med program too?" Ethan called from his bedroom. "They said I can do both if I want.  Mythology major with pre-med requirements."

Claire smiled, a small victory. "That's great, honey. Keep your options open."

They'd been having this gentle tug-of-war for months. Claire wanted the security of a medical career for him. Ethan was compelled to understand what they'd experienced. At least the dual-track was a compromise.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. The mail carrier handed her a package.  No return address, but Claire recognized the handwriting.

Inside were newspaper clippings about strange occurrences in Romania, a geological survey of ley lines in northern Japan, and a hand-drawn map of what appeared to be underground chambers beneath a Spanish cathedral. Between the pages were photos.  Margaret standing before a temple in Kyoto, leaning against an ancient stone wall in Transylvania, examining hieroglyphs in an Egyptian tomb.  There was only one picture with another person in it: Margaret next to an enormous, broad shouldered, olive complected man.  His close cropped beard seemed to be creeping up to try to reach his eyes and down his neck.  The same course, dark hair was thick on his arms and reached up the middle of the backs of his hands.  One arm was around Margaret’s waist in an intimate embrace.  She was laughing, happily.  He was smiling… woflishly.

A note was tucked into the final postcard:

Following threads. Some answers, more questions. There are more cults than I thought, but most seem to have nothing to do with vampires. Cedar Lane was somewhat unique in its longevity and scale. Other sites will need monitoring.

Tell Beatrice I said ‘hello’. Hope she's adjusting to Portland.  Have you heard her, yet?

Be well. M.

Claire touched the brooch pinned to her sweater, which she'd taken to wearing daily. The temperature around her desk dropped slightly, a now-familiar sign of the ghost's presence.

"She's doing fine," Claire said aloud to the empty room, knowing Margaret would have guessed she'd talk to Beatrice. "Still complaining about the rain."

She spread the materials across her desk, fingers tracing the lines of Margaret's handwriting. Six months of relative normalcy.  PTA meetings, writing deadlines, and college applications had given her perspective. The horror of Cedar Lane no longer consumed her. The nightmares had subsided. She and Ethan were doing well.

And perhaps she was, almost, ready for something else.  Something adventurous.

Claire didn't say it aloud, even to Beatrice. But as she gathered Margaret's research and placed it carefully in her desk drawer, her smile suggested something had shifted. The door she'd closed might not be locked after all.

She turned back to her laptop, fingers hovering over the keys for just a moment before she began to type:

Chapter 1: Welcome to Cedar Lane

The cursor blinked, waiting for what came next.  Claire smiled, and began typing rapidly.

The rain continued its steady rhythm against the glass and, elsewhere in the apartment, a Victorian ghost hummed a tune from a world long gone while a newly created teenage ghost tried to harmonize along in guttural, death metal growls.