Well, today is officially my last day of summer, so I figured I'd celebrate with a new chapter. The story jumps a bit, but hopefully it's easy enough to follow. I tend to think of each chapter like a TV episode. Maybe that analogy will be helpful.

.

CHAPTER ELEVEN:

He sits on the log, his feet dangling off of the swampy ground. Aunt Jelly always told him not to go play by the marsh, but that is his favorite place to explore. At his side sits a beat-up cloth bag, the kind that he had once found stashed in the attic a long time ago. It was small, but the perfect size for storing his little sketchbook and a few stubby pencils.

First Maybeck starts drawing the marsh. It's not easy, because there are big, sweeping trees that hang low over the water, and he's not sure he can draw that. A dragonfly zips by his ear, and he wishes he could've drawn it if it hadn't been moving so quickly.

Maybeck settles on a funny-looking bunch of cattails on the water's edge, swaying softly in the breeze. School has just finished up for the summer, and Missouri's June weather is beautiful.

But cattails are boring to draw; at least, that's what Maybeck decides. So he flops down onto the log, laying down and looking up at the big white clouds as they pass overhead. Funny, he thinks, that one looks almost like a mouse.

"Hey!"

Maybeck sits up, twisting around. When he doesn't see where the voice came from, he falls back down again.

"Hey! You- you shouldn't be on that log!"

"Are you gonna come out, or are you gonna keep hiding?" Maybeck calls out without even sitting up. It's a girl's voice he hears, high and timid.

On his right, a small blond head emerges from behind a bush. The first thing he notices is her hair, twisted and tangled and hanging low across the girl's face like a half-shut curtain. Underneath all of that hair is a freckled face, with a short rounded nose and two enormous eyes.

"I said, you shouldn't be on that log," the girl repeats, rubbing her nose. Come to think of it, her nose does look awfully pink. "If you fall off, you're gonna land in the marsh water."

"I come out here all the time," Maybeck shrugs her off. The girl lets out a short sneeze, and he watches her. "Why you sneezing now?"

The girl looks down, "I dunno, I think it's this bush. I might be 'llergic." She replies, misspeaking the word as little kids do.

"Then get outta it!" Maybeck cries, beckoning her over to his log. The girl crosses through the marsh grass, holding fistfuls of her printed yellow skirt up as she walks. Seeing where he wants her to go, she stops.

"I can't go out there! What if I fall? Imma end up in the water, and Missus Merriweather won't be happy with me."

"You're not gonna fall. Here, jump on that rounded rock right there - no, the other one. There." The girl does. "Now cross to the two rotting stumps on your right, make sure to step in the middle." Maybeck guides her across his makeshift trail until she reaches the log in the middle of the marsh water. She plops down beside him.

"What's your name?"

"Terrance Donald Maybeck, the first," he says proudly. "You can call me Donnie. I'm ten years old, and my Aunt Jelly says I'm already taller than most kids two years older than me!" Maybeck pauses, then remembers his manners. "What's your name?"

"I'm Jessica Fairlie." She says with a friendly smile, sticking out her hand for a shake. "Call me Jess."

…

10:07 PM

Maybeck wanders into another darkened room, fumbling around as he searches for a lamp, a light, anything. His hand finally grazes the panel on the wall and he flicks on a light switch. Standing in the center of an almost empty room, he notices the mysterious lumps scattered around, covered in white sheets. They look like some type of furniture, draped in cloth for protection or concealment.

Curiosity gets the better of him as Maybeck reaches for the nearest white mass. The cloth covering is hardy and course, ready to withstand years of hiding whatever is underneath. With one swoop, Maybeck pulls the covering away, revealing… a sculpture.

The figure is made of a rich bronze, darkened with age and yet still retaining a gentle metallic gleam. It takes a moment for Maybeck to examine the contorted face and inhuman body structure of the figure: it looks like some sort of mythical beast, with an overly-muscled body and curled horns sprouting from its skull. The beast stands with wide hunched shoulders, crouched on a brass pedestal like it perches waiting to strike.

Maybeck steps back quickly, spooked by the menacing figure. Crossing to the next sheet, he uncovers another statue of the same beast, in a slightly different pose. Two more follow, each posed uniquely, and a final largest statue sits at the center of the room. Easily the most impressive, this shows the beast with large outstretched wings, webbed like a bat's.

"What the hell…?" Maybeck mutters to himself, bending to examine the pedestal of the final statue. There's no inscription at all: no title, date, description, or even an artist's name. Nothing.

"By now I'm sure you're more than curious."

Maybeck jumps a few feet in the air at the voice, turning quickly to see an unfamiliar shadow fill the doorway. No, vaguely familiar: the withered old groundskeeper, the one everyone called 'Mr. Wayne'. As he stepped further into the light, Maybeck could see that there was nothing light or joking in his face, with furrowed eyebrows and blue eyes sparking with energy.

"I don't like people sneaking up on me," Maybeck calls out, perhaps too brashly.

"Then don't go sneaking around where you shouldn't be." Wayne reprimands him like a child. "There's a reason those stay covered and hidden away. A good reason."

"And what reason is that?"

Wayne shrugs, "How am I supposed to know, Mr. Maybeck? I'm only a humble groundskeeper." He turns to leave, but Maybeck wants more.

"That's not true, Mr. Wayne."

"Oh, really?" The old man stops and turns.

"You're the only one I've seen stand up against Miss Maleficent when she is unhappy. Well, other than Jess, and she's…" Maybeck lets his voice wander off, before gathering strength and saying, "dead."

Wayne's mouth turns up in a way that's nearly a slight smile. "What were you looking for, boy?"

At twenty years old, Maybeck hardly believed he was a boy. "I wasn't looking for anything. Jess warned about the shadows in this old place, so I was going into every room I could access and turning all of the lights on. If she was so scared of the shadows, then maybe we all should be."

Wayne nodded. "Shadows are tricky things, aren't they? Tricky things indeed. Able to hide things in plain sight; people, objects, secrets."

"Jess spoke about the secrets too. What kind of secrets could she be talking about?"

"I'm not sure, Mr. Maybeck. But remember to keep in mind: everyone has secrets, no matter what they say. I do, you do, everyone." He began to leave, and Maybeck followed. "And on a night as deadly as this has been, no secret is too small or unimportant. They're all dangerous."

…

10:25 PM

Amanda moves quickly, gathering her teal skirt in clenched fists as she walks. She is well aware of the steps taken by Finn behind her, moving to keep up. Reaching the staircase before him, she climbs the first step as his hand grips her wrist.

"Let go of me, Finn," she says calmly, not looking behind her.

"I'll apologize," he says, and the emotion in his voice to tough to read. "I'm sorry, but you're still lying to me. Why can't you just be honest?"

"I barely know you. I have absolutely zero obligations to be honest with you."

"What is so bad about being honest?" His tone takes on more compassion, and she finally meets his intense gaze. "You can trust me."

"No, no I shouldn't."

"Yes, you can!" he insists. "What broke inside of you, Amanda? What broke so badly that you can't trust anyone?"

She shakes her hand out of his grasp and leans in close. For a split second, Finn believes this conversation is taking a very different turn. But she stops an inch from his face, speaking softly and slowly. "You don't know me, Finn. I'm sorry, but you don't. If you want to try and put together the pieces of my past, be my guest. I won't stop you. But I'm not answering any more questions. Frankly, I'd like to be alone."

She ascends the grand staircase, leaving him at the bottom.

…

Two Years Ago…

Charlene sits in the uncomfortable wooden chair, her back as straight as possible. Her clothes are clean and well put together, but hardly fashionable. The finest part of her ensemble is an emerald green cap with a small rim, the patch of decorative black lace hanging low over one eye. She looks respectable and composed, like a woman in a serious painting.

Inside, she feels like screaming. Her left hand feels bare without the sparkling diamond ring she's been sporting for the past few weeks. Has it only been weeks? It felt so much longer than that, and yet it all came tumbling down in an instant.

From behind the frosted glass door in front of her, she can hear loud voices and slamming hands on desks. The office currently holds three people: Philip Knight, the executive producer and CEO of Fantasia Pictures; Gaston LeFou, director of "The Creature of Bald Mountain"; and Lumiere, Charlene's agent. Gaston is yelling something with much gusto while Lumiere snaps at him in his French accent. Somewhere amongst the chaos is Mr. Knight, trying to play mediator while reminding the other men that he holds the most power at this studio.

"You cannot expect me to continue working with that harlot!" Gaston spits. "Mr. Knight, you are well aware of the personal issues that Miss Turner and I have recently been experiencing, and I swear if she stays in this project I will be leaving!"

"How dare you call my client a 'harlot', you filthy swine!" Lumiere shouts. "You knew the risks of becoming romantically involved with one of your hired actresses. Besides, Mr. Knight has heard plenty about the incident at hand, and you are clearly blowing this far out of the water."

Charlene clenches her jaw, fighting back tears. Here, three men were settling the future she'd been working hard towards for years, and she could do nothing but sit outside and listen. Lumiere is right: Gaston is overreacting to the hundredth degree.

The activity in the office quiets down after a few more minutes of yelling, and Charlene can't hear the discussions inside. After what seemed like days, Gaston comes flying out the door. His face is red and he is breathing hard as he approaches Charlene and grabs her roughly on the shoulders.

"If I had my way with you, girl," he says menacingly, "You'd never get another job in this town again."

"Get your paws off of her," Lumiere warns from behind him, his voice uncharacteristically dark and cold.

Gaston straightens up and extends his hand. "I want the diamond back."

Charlene mutely hands him a small yellow envelope with the engagement ring tucked inside. As if she'd want to keep a token from him.

Gaston storms away, and Charlene meekly crosses to Lumiere. He puts a gentle hand on her back, protectively, and speaking in a stern voice. "Knight is letting you stay in the production, but Gaston is leaving."

They walk towards the elevators. "Really?"

"Considering all of the reshoots they'd need to finance with a replacement actress, Knight figured it would be cheaper to simply replace Gaston with another director."

Charlene nods, her throat thick. As silly as the little horror flick is, it holds the potential to rocket her career.

"This is a real mess, Charlene. A real mess. We got outta there on a hair, mainly because Mr. Knight is a rational thinker and Gaston's not."

"Then we've been lucky," she agrees.

"I'm not trying to scold you – I know you're technically an adult in years – but do you realize how complicated things had become? An engagement to a director is always tricky business; I told you this from the beginning and you didn't believe me. And then you were caught kissing that intern –"

"Studio boy," Charlene corrects. "He's a nobody, believe me."

"Well, obviously it all sent Gaston farther over the edge than we could've imagined," Lumiere sighs, watching the elevator doors close behind them. "Charlene, you've come too far and given too much to lose, to blow it all. You have potential, real potential. And it'd kill me to see that thrown away in a situation like this."

She nods, taking in each of his words. There's nothing more to say.

…

10:25 PM

Willa's steps are careful and measured, mindfully controlled as she descends further into the tunnel. The oil lamp in her hand only throws so much light, just barely enough to see a few steps forward. In the shadowy light, Willa can make out the cracks on the stone brick walls, the dribbles of moisture leaking downwards to form in puddles at her feet. Cobwebs decorate the ceiling in abundance, and a jolt of fear surges throw Willa. Where there are cobwebs, there are spiders. And Willa hates spiders.

She has been walking for at least ten minutes, though it feels more like forty. The tunnel seems to continue in a straight line for some time, then turns corners at 90-degree angles and keeps going. Without enough light, it is impossible to judge how far each length of tunnel goes.

Being completely honest, Willa is lost.

She fights to steady her breathing as she passes through a low hanging web. Batting the sticky threads away from her face, her hand feels a slight pressure. Willa lowers her right hand from her forehead, turning it over to see a hairy black spider the size of a quarter.

Fear courses through Willa's veins, from her toes and upwards. She screams a bloodcurdling cry, shaking her hand wildly and dragging it along the rock wall. At some point the spider flies off, but Willa doesn't care. She tears down the tunnel too quickly, swinging the lamp out in front of her in a hasty attempt to light her way. As she runs, her panicked scream echoes off of the walls and follows her own ears.

…

Maleficent twitches at the sound of the scream. It seems to surround her, hanging in the walls and through the room. She closes her eyes, trying not to imagine the girl whose scream that was. The dark-haired girl in the black evening gown, who floated so serenely in a pool of blood.

"I can still hear her," Maleficent speaks in a monotone to a darkened room. "Jezebel, her scream follows me everywhere. She shouldn't have died, that is not how this goes. She didn't have to die!"

…

"She didn't have to die!"

Willa hears the voice as she stands pressed against the wall. Her ear is aligned next to a series of small holes in the rock, holes too small to have been noticed but just big enough to let sound through. She'd heard Maleficent's voice coming from the tiny, identical slots, and now Willa assumes that she is listening into the hostess's private room.

Someone speaks in a low mumble, too quiet for Willa to make out words. She presses even harder against the wall, but to no avail.

Maleficent talks again, "I don't care, Jezebel was never involved. She was never a part of this, of anything. I worked hard to keep her out, to keep her removed from this. So do not tell me that I should've done better, tried harder."

"Who are you talking to?" Willa mumbles to herself, keeping her voice under her breath. There are more words from the quiet voice, then Maleficent shouts.

"Do not speak to me of prices to pay!"

…

10:28 PM

Somewhere behind her, Amanda knows Finn waits for her. He probably thinks she'll turn right around and go back to him, politely asking for him to forgive her. Ha.

She crosses the hall and reaches her room, the first on the left next to Charlene's. Jiggling the handle, she strides inside and closes the door behind her.

Amanda sees her reflection in the mirror across from her, surprised by how wide and frantic her eyes look. Miraculously, her hair still falls in careful waves down her bare shoulders, hanging over the ocean-colored fabric of her gown. Remembering Jess's comment about Amanda's dress being custom made, she smiles. Custom made, indeed.

Amanda shakes off the memory and turns around, seeing a box lying beside the musty old bed. It's more of a crate, really, with sanded wooden boards making up the six sides of the box. She kneels down and checks the inside contents slowly. Yes, the delivery is here all right.

She has expected this delivery, and yet something about it still rattles her. The fact that it's here, after traveling so far, sends an eerie chill throughout her body. Now, the rest is up to me. And timing, timing is everything. It's about time.

Sitting back onto her heels, Amanda lets her mind wander to Finn for a moment. He's such a nice man, she remarks to herself, and he seems more genuine than most people I've met. But… I can't. How can I trust him? Not when he learns the truth, he'll come to hate me. Despise me.

Amanda knows the promises she made, and sometimes promises cannot be broken. So she ignores Finn, ignores the past, gathers her courage, and opens the wooden box again.

…

10:33 PM

"Charlene!"

"Philby, for the love of God in heaven, leave me alone!"

Charlene reaches her bedroom and slams the door shut behind her. Damn him, she thinks to herself, Philby and all of the hell he's caused me. Somewhere in her heart of hearts, Charlene knows that Philby can't be blamed, that it's not all his fault. But after years of looking at herself with shame and disgust, it feels good to blame someone else. Face to face.

An open doorway to the right leads Charlene to her own tiny bathroom. She turns on the sink, feeling the cool water trickle through open fingers. It's refreshing, cooling her down. She gathers a palm full of the water and pats it on her face, trying to calm herself down. After all, a mad temper leads to blotchy skin, and we wouldn't want that.

And then something wraps around her ankle.

Charlene looks down, gasping just as she sees two long fangs poised to bite her.

.

.

.