{"id":1191,"date":"2019-02-14T12:29:18","date_gmt":"2019-02-14T17:29:18","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/read.whitefire-publishing.com\/?p=1191"},"modified":"2020-06-01T09:07:13","modified_gmt":"2020-06-01T13:07:13","slug":"souls-prisoner","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/whitefire-publishing.com\/read\/souls-prisoner\/","title":{"rendered":"Soul\u2019s Prisoner"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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Soul\u2019s Prisoner<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

First there are shades of sorrow, then shades of hope. Will Gwen find shades of light?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

by Cara Luecht<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\u2019ll fight for her future\u2026but can she escape her past?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Chicago, Winter, 1891<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rachel is in danger. She\u2019s seen too much.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She creeps along the cement walls through the dank underbelly of the asylum. She\u2019d never planned to leave her quiet farm life, never thought she\u2019d find a place in the city, never imagined she\u2019d be in the kind of danger that would have her cowering in Dunning\u2019s cold, labyrinthine basement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jenny has finally found her place. After a childhood of abuse, she has friends, a real job, and her only wish is to give her adopted son the kind of life she never had.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A life of stability, without the risk and uncertainty of a father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But when Jeremy, Rachel\u2019s brother, stumbles into their warehouse, asking for help to find his missing sister, Jenny\u2019s carefully constructed life begins to crumble.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

\n\t\t\t\t\t

Chapter 1<\/span><\/span><\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t\t

Chicago, 1891<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rachel eased along\nthe seeping basement wall. Fresh linens, stacked high in her arms, almost\nblocked her view. The musty corridor reeked of hasty construction and\npaper-thin concrete. The polished marble floors in the halls above gave no\nindication of the dank underbelly where Rachel delivered clean laundry. Over\nher head, heaving mechanical guts twisted and disappeared into the ceiling,\ncarrying cold water and flickering lights to the stomping nurses and their\ncharges.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Condensation\ntrickled from a shoulder-height steam pipe and collected in a slick, green\npuddle. Rachel stepped around it. At the far end of the hall, mildew\noverpowered the respectively benign odor of the underground. She filled her\nlungs with the stagnant air, because what came next was worse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\ntucked her nose into the rough, clean fabric and backed into the swinging metal\ndoors. They were heavier than the kind that separated the kitchen from the\nlaundry, where she spent most of her days. They whispered open on well-oiled\nhinges.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Certain\nmaintenance requests never went unanswered\u2014never her requests, of course, but a\nlaundry list of things that had nothing to do with the laundry. At least,\nthat\u2019s what she\u2019d heard. But she didn\u2019t have to be there long to know at Dunning,\nhinges never squeaked, dumb waiters sank silently into oblivion, and orderlies\nsecreted around corners on sighing shoes. If her beau knew where she worked,\nwhat she did during the day\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lights\nin metal cages were bolted to the basement ceiling at ten foot intervals all\nthe way down the hall leading to the patient rooms. Rachel scurried from one\ncircle of light to the next, holding her breath for the screams she knew would\nbe coming. The lowest, windowless levels of the asylum had never been intended\nto hold patients, but they\u2019d run out of room on the floors above and converted\none wing into patient rooms. Conveniently, the basement housed the most\ndisturbing cases: those whose families were only too relieved to forget.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rachel\nstopped at an echoing, muffled scream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll\ntake those,\u201d a quiet voice slithered from behind her. Rachel jumped but quickly\ncorrected the feeble imperfection. Straightening her posture, she forced her\nshoulders down and turned to face the sniveling excuse for a man she now\nrealized had followed her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSure.\u201d\nShe handed over the pile, avoiding the brush of his hands. He tried, he always\ntried, but she\u2019d learned to avoid his pale, clammy fingers. He was a too-young\nIrish man with greasy red hair. And even though Rachel towered above him, there\nwas a hungry determination in his stature that she didn\u2019t possess.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rachel\ndid her best to look as big as possible, leveling her almost-black eyes down at\nhim. His returning, wet smile warned her he would not be intimidated by a\nlaundress. He hissed through his crooked teeth, maneuvering the pile to one\nhand. With the other, he reached to brush her cheek. Rachel backed away in\ntime. She couldn\u2019t make it through the swinging doors, though, before the swell\nof his discordant laugh filled the hall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Paint dripped from Miriam\u2019s brush onto the\nwood plank floor of her studio. Speckled and spotted with the waste of more\ninspired days, the floor had long ceased to shine. If only she could rework\nthat squander.<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her\nart had taken a dark turn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ice\nshards clawed at the window. The night beat its way into the brightly lit room.\nWhen her father had had the townhome built for her mother, it had been lit only\nby gas lamps. Michael, after their marriage, insisted on electric lights in her\nstudio. Miriam had agreed but rarely used them. Tonight, both the electric and\ngas lamps burned loud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam\ninhaled the waxy air. She used to like the dark. After her father\u2019s death, she\nhad found comfort in the anonymity. Her painting had been her reason for being.\nNow, she had other reasons. But the dark shapes on the canvas shifted, the\nblack eyes of a woman she\u2019d never met watched, pleaded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam\ncut white into the deep gray on her palette to fight the dark hues that\npervaded. She lifted her brush to the canvas, dragged it along the top edge\nuntil the paint dwindled, and then repeated the process, relieved to see the\nbrighter color. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\nbrought green into the lighter gray, scraped it together with her knife and\napplied it with heavy strokes until spring-like color dominated the edges of\nthe tightly stretched fabric. Enough for one night. She swirled her brushes in\na jar of turpentine and then tried to rub the smell off her hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The\nelectric light knob had been installed near the door she never used, so she\ncrossed to it and turned it to the off position. The harsh light faded, leaving\nonly the warm glow of the gas bulbs. Her painting called again, and Miriam\nturned to examine it once more before disappearing into the secret passageway\nthat connected most of the rooms in the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The\nlight paint hadn\u2019t changed anything. The soft green only boxed in and\nimprisoned the strange woman who stared back from the canvas with pleading,\nempty eyes. Miriam tore her gaze from the pain on the canvas and made her way\ninto the dark passages. The night would be long.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYa sure took yer fair time.\u201d The portly Irish laundry\nmatron, Bonah, slapped her red palm down on the counter. Rachel obeyed the\nwordless directive and heaved the last bundle of sheets onto the chipped,\nwooden surface. It was almost time be done for the night.<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\nhad to\u2026\u201d Rachel let the excuse die off as the uninterested woman untied the\nbundle and pulled the sheets apart, separating those in need of extra soaking\ntime.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\ncould start on those over there, gal.\u201d With a slight push of her head, she\nmotioned to a mountain of linens that would never again be white.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\nma\u2019am.\u201d Rachel hurried to pick up one of the heavy clumps of fabric and lift it\nto the wide counter. She untied the knot, found the corner of a sheet, and\ncoaxed it out of the twisted mess. Streaks of blood gave her pause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\nya found?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The\nsmell of feces and sweat pushed Rachel back a step. She lifted her wrist to\ncover her nose. Bonah rolled her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThese\npeople don\u2019t got it all right in there\u201d\u2014she thumped on her sweaty forehead with\na red, cracked finger. \u201cYou\u2019re gonna have to get used to surprises.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rachel\nnodded, still breathing in the smell of her own shirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGoodness,\ngal,\u201d Bonah dropped her dirty linens and bustled around to Rachel\u2019s side of the\ntable. She elbowed her away and jerked the sticky sheets apart. \u201cYou know, I\nthought you was a farm girl.\u201d Bonah huffed disapprovingly while she yanked the\nbundle apart. \u201cYou should be able to handle working in a laundry. You just\ngonna have to\u2026 Oh, my.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bonah\ntook a step back before quickly covering what she had discovered and securing\nthe bundle again with a tight knot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\nwas that?\u201d Rachel whispered to Bonah\u2019s back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t\nyou tell no one \u2019bout this, ya hear?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut\nwhat was that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bonah\nlifted the bundle and dropped it into a cart. \u201cDon\u2019t you touch this one. It\u2019s\ngotta be burned.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rachel\nnodded, meeting Bonah\u2019s serious gaze. Bonah glanced back to the cart, and then\nto the rest of the pile of laundry that needed sorting. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGal,\nlet\u2019s sit a spell, that laundry ain\u2019t goin\u2019 nowhere. And with it snowing like\nit is out there, we\u2019ll likely be spending the night anyway.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere\nwill we sleep?\u201d Rachel\u2019s mind shifted to the cells in the basement of the main\nbuilding. The ones with locked doors, writhing women, huddled and muttering old\nmen, and sneering orderlies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll\nbunk with the kitchen maids in the attic. Rooms are usually warm. Why, you got\nsomeplace to be?\u201d Bonah leveled her squinted gaze at Rachel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell,\nyes.\u201d Rachel looked up at the windows and the blinding white of the storm. \u201cI\nwas supposed to go to the Foundling House.\u201d She had an appointment to speak\nwith the head nurse about a teaching position there. It was the kind of job\nshe\u2019d hoped to do at Dunning. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But\nthat wasn\u2019t the whole truth. She was also hoping to see Winston. He was\nsupposed to introduce her to his family<\/a> soon. Rachel glanced to the mountainous\ncarts of laundry. When she\u2019d left the farm, it had been with the hopes of\nsecuring a teaching position in the poor house here on the Dunning grounds. But\nshe\u2019d arrived to find another had already taken the position, and she ended up\nin laundry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bonah\nsnorted. \u201cYou\u2019ll make more money here. They don\u2019t pay nothin\u2019.\u201d She reached her\nround arms behind her back and fought the damp knot of her apron. \u201cBut they\nain\u2019t crazy there, I suppose.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rachel\nlistened to the blowing snow hit the windows set high on the walls. Somehow,\nshe expected it to melt before piling against the panes. The laundry was\nperpetually hot. The boiling vats bubbled almost around the clock, and the\nsheets hung heavy and lifeless in the hot drying room. Any cool draft that\nmight have found its way to drift across the floor was blocked by their long\nskirts and close quarters. Rachel glanced back to Bonah, still struggling with\nthe knot at her back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet\nme help you.\u201d Rachel stepped closer to the older woman. \u201cThey need someone to\nteach after the Christmas holiday. Right now I could tend the infants.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The\nknot released. Bonah turned and with a curt nod acknowledged the helpful\ngesture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\nwas in those sheets?\u201d Rachel\u2019s eyes drifted to the bundle in question.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGal,\njust because someone\u2019s mind don\u2019t work, it don\u2019t mean their other parts don\u2019t.\u201d\nShe shifted under Rachel\u2019s unwavering stare before dropping her voice to an\nurgent whisper. \u201cThe womens sometimes find themselves in a condition.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\nmean\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\ngal.\u201d Bonah hung her apron on a peg next to the swinging doors and rolled her\neyes. \u201cYes, that\u2019s what I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut\u2026\u201d\nRachel hurried to catch Bonah before she disappeared down the hall toward the\nlunch room. \u201c\u2026the women and the men are on their own floors. How\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\nsuspect it\u2019s not the other patients that are the problem, or they was in the\ncondition before they came.\u201d Bonah stopped in the middle of the hallway and\nturned to meet Rachel\u2019s wide eyes. \u201cPeople don\u2019t work here because they want to\nhelp. They work here because they need a paycheck. And bad people need a\npaycheck just like good people do. What was twisted up in those sheets was too\nlittle to live anyway. Don\u2019t you worry \u2019bout that none. The ones born big never\nsurvive neither. Crazy mothers don\u2019t breed healthy babies.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bonah\nstarted walking again, and Rachel fell into step.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNever\nyou mind anything else,\u201d Bonah interrupted. \u201cYou just do your job and stay out\nof the places you don\u2019t need to be.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\nma\u2019am.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The\nwindows in the hallway were lower. Their dusty panes provided a view of the\nexpansive stone asylum. The gray block towered overhead, looking back through\nits own glowing, gas-lit square eyes. Patient shadows hung and wavered against\nthe barred glass. Two rooms in the attic flickered to life. Snow whipped\nbetween the buildings, obscuring the small, infrequent windows of the misery-infested\nbasement. They persisted in their black, shuttered stare.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam slipped out of the passageway and into what had\nonce been her father\u2019s bedroom. Now it was Michael who slumbered in the huge\nfour-poster bed, unaware of her night-veiled visit to her studio. The woman\nstill called from the painting. She had dark hair, dark eyes, and the palest of\ncomplexions. Miriam wanted to think her pallor was natural, but she knew it\nwasn\u2019t. It was the color of fear. And again, Miriam railed against her changing\ngifting. She used to see people on the street\u2014sometimes they were strangers,\nsometimes she knew them, but they would be people whose faces she\u2019d studied.\nShe would paint them, and then paint who they would become. This change\u2014now painting\nsomeone she\u2019d never met, a completely unfamiliar face, someone she knew lived\nand breathed, and then painting them in distress\u2014this was new. This was\ndifferent. And if this was real, she was powerless to do anything. <\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam\nsat at her husband\u2019s dressing table and fingered the silver handle of his\nshaving brush. The clock in the downstairs hall chimed five times. The heavy\ndrapes remained dark. The sky was too thick, the early snow too demanding. She\nwas scheduled to visit the warehouse today. Beatrice planned on meeting her\nthere after her tour of the Foundling House. There were new contracts in the\nmaking, but with the snow, it promised to be a quiet day. One she should spend\npainting. One she should dedicate to completing that tortured stranger\u2019s\nportrait. Miriam tucked her cold fingers into her pockets and looked back to\nher dozing husband.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If\nshe were a better wife, she would abandon the woman upstairs, the one who\nstared back from the painting. She would climb back into bed with her husband,\nshe would mold her body against his and wake him up with softness and promise.\nBut she was not. Miriam stood and crossed to the heavy brocade drapes. They had\ndecided on the fabric together: a cascade of peacock-like colors with gold and\ncream thread woven into blossoming almond trees that grew from floor to\nceiling. The pink- and cream-laced blooms only opened at the very tips of the\nfragile branches near the top, where the mahogany carved rods echoed the\nunpredictable movement of tree bark. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome\nback to bed.\u201d Michael spoke softly. He was always so careful not to disturb her\nthoughts. Miriam knew he\u2019d taken on a burden when he married her. Marrying a\nwoman who painted the future, one who preferred to be alone, one who would rather\nsit quietly than be forced to make polite conversation with strangers, was not\non the list of dreams for any man\u2014especially one who needed a wife on his arm\nfor a unending list of social and business obligations. What he would think of\nher shifting focus, she didn\u2019t want to consider.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam\nnodded and unbuttoned her robe. She draped it across the chaise and slid\nbeneath the sheets to where his warmth gathered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve\nbeen gone for a while.\u201d Michael\u2019s breath rustled Miriam\u2019s hair as she turned\nand he pulled her close.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\nwas just upstairs.\u201d Miriam tucked the quilt beneath her chin, breathing in the\nscent that was uniquely theirs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Michael\nhummed his understanding. It was a sound that communicated everything left\nunsaid. Miriam smiled and closed her eyes as Michael\u2019s breathing shifted back\nto a soft snore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When\nit was light, Miriam would go back to the woman who haunted her mind from the\nfloors above and try to fix her again. Maybe, if she tried hard enough, she\ncould paint satisfaction into the stranger\u2019s existence. After all, if she\u2019d\nnever met her\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam\nbit the inside of her bottom lip until it hurt. It would be what it would be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHi, Ma.\u201d Jed filled the doorway. Rachel\nwatched the icy snow convulse around his lantern.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jed\nstooped under the frame and shuffled into the laundry. His movements were too\nslow for someone who needed to hide from the dark, icy blast. He in no way\nresembled Bonah, which made sense, because she was not really his mother. But\nthe way she babied the giant would lead anyone to believe that he had come from\nthe small, stocky woman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere\nya been?\u201d Bonah reached up to help him unwind his scarf. Jed bent at the waist\nwhile she pulled. Once it was removed Jed stood, and Bonah hooked her hand\nunder his forearm, leading him to a bench in the corner of the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jed\nset the lantern on the folding table and wrestled his gloves from his hands. He\ndidn\u2019t loosen the fingers first, instead he grabbed them at the wrist and\nyanked until his huge hands were free. He shoved the gloves into the pockets of\nhis overcoat and turned the wick down, all the time watching the flame die. He\nlooked up and smiled at Bonah. Her face softened, and she nodded back. He had\ndone a good job. Exactly with what, Rachel had no idea. The nod could have\ncommunicated that he\u2019d completed a task only Bonah had known about, or it could\nhave meant that she was proud he had removed his gloves without assistance. In\nthe short time Rachel had worked in the laundry, she had learned that\nquestioning Bonah or Jed was a fool\u2019s errand. It was enough to know that they\ntook care of each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rachel\npicked a sheet out of a bundle of clean linen and spread it on the table. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh,\ndon\u2019t mess with that now.\u201d Bonah waved her hand, indicating she was done for\nthe evening. \u201cWe\u2019ve already put in more hours than we should have waiting for\nthat snow to lighten up.\u201d Bonah glanced out of the high windows again. This\ntime they were nearly completely covered. \u201cI think we\u2019d better make our way to\nthe main building with this last load before it gets any darker or starts\nblowing any harder.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rachel\nnodded and tossed the sheet on top of the bundles in the wheeled laundry cart.\nBefore she could push it up against the wall in line with the rest of the\ncarts, Jed jumped up to stop her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll\ndo that.\u201d He shrugged his huge shoulders and moved into her path. Rachel had no\nchoice but to let him help.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThank\nyou, Jed.\u201d Rachel caught Bonah\u2019s approving glance and nodded her understanding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jed\nhad been at the asylum longer than anyone could remember. The most accepted\nrumor was that he had been dropped off as a child. No one ever came to visit\nhim, but then the only regular visitors seemed to be the university students\nwho studied the mind or the reporters who wanted to interview the most recent\nsensational case. And no one wanted their visits.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere\nshould be a bed made up for ya upstairs here in the laundry. I\u2019ll have to find\na bed in the upper floor of the main building.\u201d Bonah frowned and wound the\nscarf around Jed\u2019s neck again before attending to her own. She pulled on her\nmittens and tucked them into the sleeves of her coat. \u201cDon\u2019t ya have any\nmittens, gal?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll\nbe fine.\u201d Rachel shoved her bare fingers deep into her coat pockets. Her coat\nwas too thin for this weather, but the walk to the main building was short. It\nwas the walk back alone that she didn\u2019t look forward to. Although the maids\nstayed together above the laundry, and they typically ate together, that was as\nfar as the friendships went. And as a laundress, Rachel was even further\nremoved. The only thing worse than staying on the asylum grounds was staying\nthere alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bonah\nshook her head. Jed stared at the door handle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGo\nahead,\u201d Bonah gave Jed the permission he was waiting for as she re-lit the\nlantern and turned the knob for the last gas light that still flickered in the\nmetal fixture overhead. The lantern illuminated the door, and Jed blocked the\nrest of the light. Rachel ducked into Jed\u2019s shadow and sank into the cold snow.\nIt filled her shoes, even though she followed Jed\u2019s footprints.<\/p>\n\n\n