She is seventy-eight years old, Jonathan, and room and board in this enclave aren't free, my older sister Victoria said, wiping her manicured nails without looking up from her tablet.
The drawing room, usually a sanctuary of quiet conversation, now thrummed with the low hum of polite chatter and clinking champagne flutes. Thirty of Atlanta’s most influential Black socialites mingled beneath the glittering crystal chandelier, their expensive attire a kaleidoscope of muted elegance.
Victoria, radiant in her sapphire gown, worked the room with practiced ease, her laughter echoing a little too loudly. She kept glancing toward the grand mahogany desk in the corner, where a fresh set of legal documents lay waiting.
My mother was still locked in the garden suite. I’d tried the key Victoria had so carelessly dropped, but it was just for show. She had changed the locks.
I stood by the arched entrance, a silent observer. My presence, Victoria had made clear, was an annoyance she would tolerate only because it added to her narrative of the “troubled brother” she was so nobly managing.
Outside, the air had grown heavy, oppressive. The scent of ozone, sharp and metallic, began to creep in through the open French doors. A low, distant growl rumbled, not of conversation, but of thunder.
One of the guests, Mrs. Albright, a formidable woman known for her civic philanthropy, approached Victoria. “My dear, I must say, the estate is simply breathtaking. Such history. It’s wonderful that you’re taking such an active role.”
Victoria preened, her gaze sweeping over the room. “Thank you, Mrs. Albright. It’s a great responsibility, one I’m honored to shoulder for the family legacy.”
Another rumble, closer this time, rattled the windowpanes. A few guests looked nervously toward the darkening sky visible through the sheer curtains.
“Looks like a storm is brewing,” someone muttered.
Victoria waved a dismissive hand. “Just a summer shower. Atlanta weather, you know.”
But it wasn’t a normal summer shower. The air felt thick, charged, almost surreal. A strange, greenish tint began to tinge the twilight outside.
Victoria glanced at her watch. The moment she’d been waiting for was near. She walked decisively toward the mahogany desk, her movements fluid and confident.
She picked up the pen, her hand poised over the signature line of a thick document – undoubtedly the final deed transferring ownership to her holding company. Her carefully arranged smile, meant for her guests, was fixed in place.
Just as the pen hovered over the paper, a blinding flash of white light erupted directly overhead. The entire house shuddered violently.
A deafening crack of thunder tore through the air, so loud and immediate it felt as if the sky itself had ripped open directly above the estate. The very foundations seemed to groan.
Then, a high-pitched, electric whine filled the room. The lights flickered wildly, then died, plunging the drawing room into an almost complete darkness, illuminated only by the intermittent, eerie green flashes from outside.
A collective gasp swept through the guests. Champagne flutes clattered.
From the grand, ancestral stone chimney that dominated one wall of the drawing room, a grotesque, unnatural blue light pulsed. It seemed to concentrate for a moment, an arc of raw electricity visible inside the hearth, before discharging with an explosive pop.
And then, silence. A profound, ringing silence, broken only by the ragged breathing of the guests and the violent hammering of rain and hail now lashing against the windows.
I stood frozen, my eyes fixed on the mahogany desk. In the faint, flickering light, I saw it. The air above Victoria’s documents shimmered, distorting. A thin wisp of smoke curled upwards.
Victoria, still clutching the pen, stared at the papers. Her eyes were wide, uncomprehending. A faint orange glow began to emanate from the desk.
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