Returning to my house, the weight of Dr. Ndidi’s cryptic warnings settled heavy on me. Nia was awake, sitting quietly in the living room, sketching in a notebook she’d found. The triplets were still asleep. Her movements were slow, still tinged with a delicate weariness that tugged at my heart.
“How was your mother?” she asked, not looking up from her drawing. Her voice was soft, almost tentative.
I sat beside her, hesitating. How much could I tell her? How much should I tell her? The world of ancestral magic, of matriarchal control, sounded like something out of a fantasy novel. But it explained everything.
“Nia,” I began, my voice low, “I found something. Something that explains a lot about what happened to you. And about my mother.”
She finally looked at me, her brow furrowed with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. “Explains what? Why I felt so… empty? Why I left you?”
“It’s not what you think,” I said. “It’s not just about my mother’s disapproval. It’s about something much, much older. Our family has… traditions. Secrets.”
I opened my phone and showed her a picture I’d secretly taken of a page from the journal, focusing on the part about the “Dimple Mark” and “ancestral power.”
Nia’s eyes widened as she read the archaic script. “Dimple Mark? Ancestral power?” She looked at me, then back at the photo. “What is this?”
“It’s from a journal,” I explained. “It details my family’s hidden practices. It says the dimple, our dimple, is a sign of a strong, specific kind of ancestral magic.”
Her hand instinctively went to her cheek, tracing the faint indentation near her lips. “Magic?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Are you saying Eleanor used magic on me?”
“The journal implies that the matriarch, my mother, is tasked to ‘guide or contain’ this power. Dr. Ndidi… she confirmed that Eleanor believes she needed to ‘channel’ the ancestral flow. She saw you, and by extension the children, as ‘unaligned vessels.’ She used something to make you doubt yourself, to make you believe you chose to leave.”
Nia shuddered, pulling her knees up to her chest. “The whispers,” she said, her eyes fixed on something distant. “I remember them now, more clearly. They were always there, in the background. Subtle. Telling me I wasn’t good enough. Telling me you deserved someone else. That the children… that they would be better off without me, free of my ‘burden.'”
Her voice was raw, etched with pain. “I thought I was losing my mind, Elijah. I thought I was having a breakdown. Every time I tried to fight the feeling, it would intensify. A dull ache in my head. A sense of crushing inadequacy. I just wanted it to stop.”
“That was it,” I realized, a cold wave washing over me. “The subtle binding. Designed to suppress your will, to make you compliant. Eleanor made you believe those terrible things about yourself.”
“And the notary,” Nia continued, her voice gaining a fragile strength. “Marcus Bellamy. He was there. He kept talking, smoothly, about deportation papers, about ensuring the children would have a ‘better future’ if I just signed. It felt like I was moving through water. My hand just moved, signed the papers.”
Her memories were returning, sharper now, freed from the mystical fog that had obscured them for so long. It was horrifying to hear, yet also a validation of the journal’s unsettling claims. My mother had not only separated us but had actively stripped Nia of her agency, her very sense of self.
“I need to talk to Marcus Bellamy,” I declared, my jaw tight. “He was complicit. He knew what Eleanor was doing.”
“Be careful, Elijah,” Nia warned, looking truly frightened now. “If she could do that to me… imagine what she could do if you directly threaten her.”
I spent the rest of the evening compiling notes, trying to connect the dots. The journal, Nia’s memories, Dr. Ndidi’s cryptic warnings. It painted a picture of a calculated, ruthless woman, cloaked in the guise of maternal concern and ancestral duty.
The next morning, I decided to go straight to Marcus Bellamy’s office. I found his address in an old family contact list – of course, Eleanor would know him. His office was in a slightly run-down building downtown, far from the polished marble of Eleanor’s world. The waiting room was small, stuffy, and had a pile of outdated magazines.
“Elijah Dubois,” I announced to the receptionist, a young woman with tired eyes. “I have an appointment with Mr. Bellamy.” I didn’t, of course, but it was my best shot at getting past her.
She looked flustered. “He’s not expecting anyone… He’s very busy.”
“It’s a Dubois family matter,” I stated, leaning in slightly, lowering my voice. “Highly sensitive. He’ll want to see me.” The mere mention of the family name often carried enough weight to open doors.
It worked. After a moment of hesitation, she picked up the phone, spoke in hushed tones, and then hung up. “He’ll see you now.”
Marcus Bellamy was a slick man, with thinning hair combed carefully over his scalp and an expensive, ill-fitting suit. His office was surprisingly opulent for the building, a clear sign he was doing well. He recognized me immediately, his smile faltering as I entered.
“Elijah,” he said, rising slowly. His voice was smooth, too smooth. “What an unexpected pleasure. To what do I owe this… visit?”
“Cut the pleasantries, Marcus,” I said, my voice cold. “I know about Nia Imani. And the papers you made her sign five years ago.”
His face paled, his composure cracking around the edges. “Nia Imani? I… I don’t recall. I handle many clients, many documents.” He gestured vaguely at a stack of folders on his desk.
“Don’t play dumb,” I pushed, stepping closer to his desk. “She remembers you. She remembers feeling disoriented, confused. She remembers the pressure to sign ‘deportation’ papers that effectively banished her and our children from my life. All at my mother’s behest.”
Marcus swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the door. “Look, Elijah, I just do my job. People come to me, they need documents notarized. I verify identities, I witness signatures. That’s all.”
“You witnessed a signature from a woman who was clearly under duress, possibly under some kind of magical influence,” I accused, watching his reaction. The mention of “magical influence” made his eyes widen almost imperceptibly, confirming he knew more than he let on. “You’re a corrupt enabler, Marcus. You falsified documents for Eleanor Dubois. You helped her steal my family.”
“I… I was paid,” he stammered, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Well. For discretion. For… expedience. Your mother is a very persuasive woman, Elijah. And very particular about her family affairs.”
“Particular enough to use ancestral magic to bend someone’s will?” I challenged, my voice still low but laced with steel.
He recoiled slightly, his gaze flitting to a small, dark wooden figurine on his bookshelf, one I recognized from some of Eleanor’s more obscure decorations. “I don’t know anything about magic, Elijah. That’s… above my pay grade. I just handle the legalities.”
“You handle the illegalities,” I corrected. “You laundered her deception through official channels. You are just as responsible for what happened to Nia and my children.”
His fear was palpable now. He was shaking slightly. “What do you want, Elijah? I can’t undo what’s done. I followed instructions. If I didn’t, Eleanor… she has ways. She’s powerful. You know that.”
“I know her power now,” I stated. “And I know she uses it to control. To manipulate. To hurt. I want the truth, Marcus. I want to know everything you did for her regarding Nia. Every document. Every payment.”
He stammered, pulling at his collar. “I don’t have… I mean, those records are sealed. Client confidentiality.”
“Client confidentiality doesn’t cover fraud, Marcus. And it certainly doesn’t cover coercion and mystical manipulation. Unless you want your entire career, and possibly your freedom, to disappear, you will provide me with every single detail.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of defiance, or perhaps cunning, replacing the fear. “You think you can challenge Eleanor Dubois? You think you can expose her without consequences? She has reach, Elijah. Deeper than you can imagine. She will not take kindly to this.”
“Are you threatening me, Marcus?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm.
He quickly backed down. “No, no, of course not. Just a word of caution. You don’t know what you’re up against. She ensures loyalty. And discretion.”
“I’m not asking for loyalty to Eleanor,” I clarified. “I’m asking for the truth. And if you don’t give it to me, I promise you, the consequences will be far more severe than anything my mother can inflict on you. I’ll make sure your name is synonymous with every corrupt deal you’ve ever touched.”
He slumped back in his chair, defeated. He knew I wasn’t bluffing. My firm, Dubois Architecture, while not involved in the same mystical circles, certainly had the resources and connections to expose a corrupt notary.
“There’s not much in writing,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “Most of it was verbal. I just… facilitated. She provided the documents, the names. I made sure they looked legitimate. And I was there when Nia signed. She was… compliant. Very quiet. Didn’t ask questions.”
“Because you and Eleanor made sure she couldn’t,” I finished for him. “Give me whatever you have. Any copies of those ‘deportation’ papers, any records of payments from Eleanor.”
He looked at me, then at the stack of folders, then back at me. “It will take time,” he mumbled. “I have to be discreet. She watches everyone, Elijah. Her people are everywhere.”
“Then be discreet, and be quick,” I ordered. “And if I find out you warned her, Marcus, you will regret it.”
As I left his office, the grim reality of Eleanor’s power hit me with full force. Her influence wasn’t limited to ancestral magic; it extended into the mundane world, corrupting people like Marcus Bellamy, silencing dissent through fear and money. She had built an empire of control, both mystical and earthly. And I, her son, had been entirely oblivious, blinded by my ambition and naive trust. I knew now that my investigation had just begun, and the dangers were far more pervasive than I could have imagined. I had to tread carefully, for Eleanor’s reach seemed to extend everywhere, and she clearly had no qualms about using it.
+ There are no comments
Add yours