1917: A Family of Joy, Hope, Faith and Grace [Part 3]

Grace

The house had begun to speak to me. At first, it was just whispers, soft and indistinct, like a voice carried on the wind. But the longer I stayed, the clearer the words became, as though they had been waiting for someone to finally listen. And I listened.

It wasn’t just the house, though. The figure—the one in my dreams, the one I sometimes caught in the corner of my eye when I was alone—it was here. Always. Watching, waiting, guiding me. I had tried to resist at first, but it was patient, merciful in a way no one else had been. It didn’t judge me for my clumsiness, didn’t mock me for my gracelessness. It saw me for who I was, and it accepted me.

Mother didn’t understand. Faith didn’t understand. They were so caught up in following the rules, in obeying the demands of this place without question. But I was different. I saw the truth. The suffering we carried was too heavy, too much. We were trapped here, by the house, by our own lives. But I could end it. I could bring them peace. Real peace.

I wasn’t scared anymore. The figure had shown me what I needed to do.

The first time I saw it clearly, I was alone in the kitchen, staring out into the fog that clung to the island like a second skin. It appeared behind me, silent and still, its long black coat trailing behind it. I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to. I knew it was there.

“You understand me,” I whispered. The words felt like a prayer, a benediction. “You know what I have to do.”

The figure didn’t speak, but I felt its approval, the gentle nudge of its presence pushing me forward. I would bring them peace. I would show them the mercy that no one had ever shown me.

Hope

It was raining again. It had rained nearly every day since we arrived, but this storm was different—angrier, more violent. The wind howled through the cracks in the windows, rattling the panes like the house itself was trying to shake us loose, to expel us from its belly. The rain beat down in sheets, turning the garden outside into a swamp of mud and debris.

I watched the storm from my bedroom window, my forehead pressed against the cool glass. Everything outside was a blur of grey and black, the shapes of the trees bending in the wind like twisted fingers reaching toward the sky. I wanted to believe that the storm would pass, that the sun would come out again and everything would be okay. But deep down, I knew better. The storm wasn’t just outside. It was here, inside the house, inside us.

I could feel it in the way Mother’s voice had grown sharper, more frantic. In the way Faith’s silence had deepened into something darker, more unsettling. And in the way Grace had started disappearing for hours at a time, only to return with this strange, hollow look in her eyes, like she was seeing something the rest of us couldn’t.

Once, I saw her standing at the foot of the stairs, staring at nothing. Her lips were moving, though no sound came out, and her hands were clasped tightly in front of her like she was praying. I called her name, but she didn’t respond. She just stood there, locked in some silent conversation with the air. And then, slowly, her head turned, just slightly, and I saw her eyes—they were distant, almost empty.

I blinked, and she was gone.

I hadn’t told Mother. I wasn’t sure she would believe me even if I did.

Joy

The storm was a bad omen. Joy knew it in her bones, could feel it in the pit of her stomach as she paced the living room, glancing out at the torrential rain that lashed against the windows. The island was trying to drive them away. Or worse—it was trying to trap them, to hold them here, forever. She had to protect the girls. She had to keep them safe, even from themselves.

Especially from Grace.

Joy’s jaw clenched as she thought of her middle daughter. Grace had always been a problem, always so… different. Clumsy, awkward, graceless in every sense of the word. But lately, her behavior had grown even more troubling. The vacant looks, the strange disappearances, the way she sometimes spoke to the empty air. Joy had tried to control it, to steer Grace back on the right path, but nothing seemed to work. It was like something had taken hold of her, something Joy couldn’t reach.

She would have to be stricter. More vigilant. She couldn’t afford any mistakes, not now. Not when they were all in danger.

There was a knock at the door.

Joy froze, her heart skipping a beat. No one had come to the island in weeks. The ferry hadn’t returned. The storm had cut them off completely. So who could possibly be outside?

The knock came again, louder this time. Reluctantly, Joy moved toward the door, her fingers trembling as she grasped the handle. She hesitated for a moment, her mind racing through all the possibilities—none of them good. Then, with a deep breath, she pulled the door open.

A man stood there, soaked to the bone, his hat pulled low over his eyes, shielding his face from the rain. He looked up slowly, his expression calm, almost too calm for someone standing in the middle of a storm.

“Good evening,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I’ve been stranded by the storm. May I come in?”

Hope

The visitor unsettled me. There was something about him, something in the way he moved through the house as if he already knew it, as if he had been here before. He didn’t seem concerned by the storm raging outside, didn’t seem fazed by the flickering lights or the way the house groaned and creaked as though it were alive. He moved through it all like it was nothing.

Mother seemed suspicious of him, but she let him stay, though she kept a careful eye on him, her fingers twitching at her side as though ready to strike if necessary. He introduced himself as a historian, someone who had come to study the island and its history. But his presence felt wrong, like he had brought something with him—something dark, something that had been waiting for the right moment to emerge.

I tried to avoid him, staying in the shadows, watching from a distance. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew something we didn’t, that he was here for more than just shelter.

That night, I saw Grace again.

I woke up to the sound of footsteps in the hallway, light and careful, like someone was trying not to be heard. I slipped out of bed, creeping toward the door, and peeked out just in time to see her moving toward the stairs, her head bowed, her hands clasped together in front of her like before.

I followed her, keeping to the shadows, my heart pounding in my chest. She moved quietly, her bare feet barely making a sound on the old wooden floor. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she paused, glancing toward the door as though expecting someone. And then, she spoke.

“I’m ready,” she whispered.

I couldn’t see who she was talking to, but I knew. I knew it was him—the figure from my dreams, the one who had always seemed so distant, so protective. But now, I wasn’t so sure. Now, it felt like he was something else. Something dangerous.

I watched as Grace stepped forward, her movements slow and deliberate. She knelt in front of the figure, her head bowed in submission, her body trembling slightly.

“I will bring them peace,” she whispered, her voice shaking with something like reverence. “I will end their suffering.”

I wanted to scream, to call out, to stop her, but my voice was trapped in my throat, paralyzed by the horror of what I was seeing. Grace was slipping away, lost to something I couldn’t understand.

And I was powerless to stop it.