The Green Lights
A Novel
Written by
Serafina Goodnight
Compiled from Material by
Marianne ‘Anna’ Adamcikova
Lydia Faire
Elaine ‘Elle’ Faire
-
The Green Lights © 2019-2023 by Serafina Goodnight is licensed under CC BY-NC 4.0 [https://chooser-beta.creativecommons.org/img/cc-logo.f0ab4ebe.svg][https://chooser-beta.creativecommons.org/img/cc-by.21b728bb.svg]
(this is altered from the original text to match the formatting of this website. If you would like a PDF copy with formatting intact, please e-mail [email protected] )
Dedicated to the women in my life without whom this text would not exist-
For Vera, For Raven, For Annabelle, For Lydia, and Me
A Little Further, Traveller. You Can’t Fight Fate Alone
I don't know the truth. I hardly remember my side of the story-
Thinking of it, there's very little I know for certain. I have knowledge gained from a thousand books, this is certain, but words fade and smudge...windows in a house unattended; and so I've had to question my knowledge too many times not to know for sure that there's little that I can be certain of except that that my library could be filled with what I do not understand.
But there's one fear that I've faced far too often: perhaps I don't know anyone at all. It's a feeling more familiar to me now than my daughter's fading face and, like any volatile and ever changing companion, has ruined my life more than once- whether or not it's true.
I'm not particularly good at knowing people- any time that I had illusions elsewise, I have been horribly and tragically wrong- but I have stories about people, those I've shared and those I've been told. I just go from life to life and story to story like I was once taught when I was learning on a whim how to speed read; only understanding enough to be coherent and meaningful in the briefest conversations.
I don't, however, think I'm alone in this. We talk a lot about how we can't understand public figures, celebrities, and the like, yet how much we Actually know about the people we think we do is only fractionally better.
There was a beach, for example- I went there many times with my own mother before distance consumed her, and then again with my own child, long before she herself was lost.
Occultists have a saying- as above so below, and so it was on that day and on that beach: Gray sands divided from the storm clouds above by countless miles of dark blue water and the air above, which led to the horizon where the earth and heavens touched at last.
Broken shells rested in the sand in hordes of thousands, and they would cut my feet leaving shallow but ever so painful wounds (my daughter, when she experienced this, complained- I never did)
In the 1860s, this beach saw significantly more blood- but honestly, between period blood and accidents (and even sometimes non-accidents), had it ever not?
The clouds above dropped their cargo just before I could get ready to go into the water, leaving craters in the sand with their dusty rain like the holes on the moon.
I wanted to cry for a moment: when I was young, nothing excited me more than fighting the waves, trying to keep the unbearably salty water out of my mouth- a little girl challenging mother nature to a duel to determine who was truly in charge. On that day, I wiped away my tears and chased away my fears (ignoring Vera's cries), walking into the water anyway.
The rainwater was colder than the summer ocean, so I pushed myself underneath.
The pattering of the rain above, I thought for a moment, was gunfire
The thunder crashing above, the cannons of the damned fort which gave this beach her name- while my mother silently read whatever book she was reading at the time alone on the rocks. It didn't matter, though. I was safe in the warm water.
You do not see this beach. Unless you lived a very specific stretch of years in a very specific part of the country- you never could and, even then, it looked different when you were there (I'm sure)
Your perception of literally everyone you know is built up of images and stories e x a c t l y like this.
All this, so you can know- From day one, I didn't know Lydia at all. I didn't know what was causing all those scared looks on her face. When I signed her up for advanced classes and saw her struggle, when she stopped sleeping regularly, even as the demons on either side of her reflection shored up their forces without my knowledge.....to think I simply could have asked.
Yesterday I was going through her receipts again. For how angry I was when she took up smoking, I never knew she even drank coffee- much less that she took her coffee the exact same way that I did.
Willful ignorance is a crime of which I try not to be a victim, when I can. That was the birthing instinct behind this project- I wanted to learn enough to know my daughter better. Initially, I did have aspirations that I could use this newfound knowledge to find her. To trace her story back to the first page, and mark a path that I could use to bring her back to me. I still strive to do so- every day, until my heart gives out and my body crumbles I will search every cloud and watch every face.
I will find more and more of her footsteps that have yet to be washed away by the waves. I will call for her, and I will search for her.
But it has been a little less than two years now, and my heart also has to accept that this my be the last trace of her, the only history of a cursed life. In spite of this, or perhaps because of this, I will rush into the waves once again to build a better image of my daughter from the shards of her- and maybe find out why.
For those of you who don't know- I am Anna Adamcikova, a full time librarian and a historian of lives forgotten for an ever increasing amount of time.
I am, after years of self study and decades of self defeat, a proud lesbian, but an even prouder mother to a lost daughter- whose disappearance briefly made national news.
The last thing I want is for her story to be popular, and I am hesitant to hope that it would even be resonant.
It's for me,
and for her,
and for anyone who knew my daughter, Lydia.
____________________________________________________
The Secret Diary of Lydia Faire (volume……5, I think?)
September 1, 2014
I am going home soon
, that is, at least, what they tell me.
The scars from my ill-formed exorcism still hide beneath bandages I'm scared to remove, but they say that I am healthy.
The Doctors have performed a collective shrug, stating that my delusion is the most persistent that they have ever witnessed- that, until I 'decide' to let go of my fantasy, it would do me best to ignore it entirely.
And Yet there are so many mirrors, even here. It tests me.
Not to mention that I know that She is real- but they repeat that I am healthy.
One part of me worries that some nurse will find this diary and that they will make me stay.
The rest of me is afraid to leave. Not only am I safe here but, here, I do not have to face the people hurt by that Night.
Petra and David......I cannot begin to believe that they would forgive me. They humored me and aided in my investigation, they say they understand- but they couldn’t possibly-
. They cannot even know how little they understand. It is easy to hear a basic summary….
My curse is simple enough….
and to think you can comprehend my story, but ‘tis another entirely to spend twelve years- with only six that I can hardly remember before this all started - living every word.
Not even mentioning mom. She was there, more or less,
the entire time.
At the same time, I miss home. I miss the restaurants downtown. I miss the pawn shops and the flea market. I miss the winding roads between trees older than me, older than Anna,- hell - probably even older than Her. I miss the footpaths through the trees leading to the Raven’s Bridge itself (The Raven's Bridge is a Landmark in the North Carolina Town of the Same Name, it will be mentioned throughout and discussed in more detail in Chapter Two)
Even still I miss that, too.
I miss feeling the cold stone on my right palm as my legs hung off of the side, my other palm being warmed by David's. I miss the sunset in Petra's eyes as she and He told me that I would never be alone in this battle…….as long as I let them help.
And I miss them. Perhaps the looks I saw when they visited me here: seeing the bandages, with oceans of sadness held just in the corners of their eyes...
turning the fluorescent lights of the institute into stars reflecting off of eyes that I love
four of very few reflective surfaces in which I have never once seen Her face..
perhaps those looks will have faded once I come home.
Even having read those words, knowing that perhaps the sadness will remain until She takes them from me, I am somehow still able to hope.
In considerably fairer news- my doctors have cleared me to get on my hormone therapy- It is impossible for me to say if they think that transition will cure my ‘delusion’ or if I have simply proven that my gender dysphoria is disconnected from’t.
Regardless,. no more walking in and out of my closet. No more locking it so no one can see the parts of me that I fear.
‘Tis affirming. I was scared, too. I have seen a woman in my reflection for so long, it was hard not to fear the woman in my heart. But photos show that the hormones that were floating me upstream have, for better and for worse, made my visage diverge from her own. I am my own woman.
I try, from time to time, to be proud. A lesser woman may have decided to not emerge from the darkness, knowing that hiding would fundamentally change her path and perhaps even save her life
maybe there will never have been any choice at all.
I keep returning to the last truly happy moment before that dark Night, still clear as day Sunset at the Beach, sitting on the rocks as the skies turned a deep red
David holds my hand as he tells me to watch the horizon for a flash of green which marks the ferry's passage to the place where we all must go.
The dying light keeps me warm and reminds me that, come what may,
there are and have always been moments and happenings that make the pages before the end worth reading.
I love you, Lydia,, perhaps I have never loved anyone as I do you, whatever is printed on the remaining pages
nothing can change that.
~Signed:Lydia Faire
______________________________________________________
An Account of the Massacre at Weaver's Creek Chapel
It is July 4th in the year of our lord 1864,
and I, Mason Shaw, have just witnessed a miracle.
A portrait, for those who were without- most of our town
the poor and the wealthy, the just and the unjust
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
anyone not already swallowed up by the Vile War
Were gathered together for worship at the Chapel down Weaver's Creek Way.
Anyone who has been reading these leaflets knows that I am infrequently pious...but something told me to be there this day.
There I was! Sitting in the pews- the beautiful and expensive stained glass windows painted my face the same as my neighbors, rendering the people of our fair town a kaleidoscope of color representing the image of Jesus- sprouting wings to take flight.
On the stage stood our Good Father Whale, all alone with nothing before him.
Save to his right-hand side, a singular silver Mirror with a small stool and an easel as silent companions.
As I walked in, the sun caught the Mirror's face for a moment and struck me blind briefly. So brilliant and so clear
was this Mirror.
Father's sermon was, on this day, a musing on what we
all must do during these times of torment.
when so many have died already that all of us walk
into this beauteous place of worship with hollowed eyes, knowing not what tomorrow will bring.
He told us that we must keep our faith, and that God would show us the path to glory.
He then began the prayer for those who were chosen or deemed to be more needy of grace than other folk.
Quietly he said
'And we all must pray for Donovan Sweet-
whose sons were all lost in the war. His wife is here now-
many of us have seen him in his rage and in his doubt. But let us have a moment of silence for Donovan Sweet and his sons.'
We Prayed for Him.
My mind, as it does, wandered during that long moment of silence. I was thinking of the color and the light-
When Father Whale coughed, and straightened himself, and took out a piece of paper and unrolled it like a scroll
and told us all that it was his pleasure to present to us
what he believed to truly be a young woman given to us from God.
'It has found my ears that some of you have met this young prophet already. I wish to thank all of you within that group, and the young Elaine's mother Annabelle for bringing her to me, as I would not have believed had I not seen with my own eyes.'
A hush fell, for only just a moment, before a humming was heard from he back of the Church. I believe it may have been those already faithful to Her Power, raising a chorus to herald her coming.
It could have been from beyond.
'Well, she is among us today- and is willing to show all who have yet to see her light the way into the future.
Passed down to her by one of God's very own angels. Is she ready, Annabelle? Annabelle Faire, everyone. Daughter of the Founder of this great Town.'
And just so, with floating elegance, rose Annabelle.
She was dressed like an angel herself,
draped white fabric covering all but her head and face.
She went to the back of the Holy Stage and disappeared for a moment.
Silence gripped us all, tightly.
When another angelic figure emerged, with a momentum almost as if pushed. Where Annabelle's hair was well groomed,
Elaine Faire's hair was wild and dark, her eyes darker, sunken into an otherwise lovely face- pale and fair.
She walked, slowly, as if walking on broken glass towards the chair by the mirror.
Her lips parted with a faint hiss as she spoke- each word like a chord slashed from some magic violin: with great effort and with a harmonious tune
'Thank you all for being here' with a grace far beyond
her Thirteen years on God's Earth 'I have been given, by His Grace, a gift. Through this mirror, and any mirror so blessed, I can see the image of an angel' a smile curled at the edge of her lips
'and not just any angel. This is an angel of time,
who has lived years untold.He shows me such beautiful things
and is willing to help me to help my friends and fellow believers'
She faced us again,
'Will any who wish to be shown the way line up on the stage?'
I and many did as she said.
The First was Thomas Bellamy, a man who had recently happened upon a fair sum of money, but who....we are so sorry Thomas....most in the town believed he would toss it away on drink or dreams. He approached humbly enough. Elaine looked at him
'Have you faith?'
'Some' Quoth He 'though I am unsure'
'It's natural. We all believe, in time. Stand in the Light' Elaine scanned Thomas more fully, and then looked into the mirror, straining her eyes to look at what only she could see:
She touched her paintbrush into a small pool of green paint and began striking at the canvas before her. We all stood, silent, as she worked furious strokes of green, then a deep golden yellow.
for some time.
Then the precious one bowed her head 'Thank you for being patient, Thomas'
she turned the Easel. On it was a House, not like any house I had ever seen before. Brick and Wood and Glass all bundled together as every house should be, but glossier- somehow a more succinct summary of what comes to mind when one thinks of 'A House.' This house sat on a clean patch of grass in the clearing of a verdant forest, much like the ones we walked through to be there this day.
'There is a patch of land that you covet, is there not- Thomas Bellamy? A small patch a smaller number of paces off of Weaver's Creek. My angel used the phrase "Bellamy's Brook?"'
Thomas stood there in stunned silence for a moment, then asked where she had heard this.
'My angel,
I tell you this in truth- My holy patron has said that you will succeed in purchasing that clearing and that the land will remain in your family's name for more than a century to come. This painting'
She rose and cradled her prophecy in her arms
'is of the home that will be built there. On land where you will lay and lie with your loving wife and children' She handed the painting to the man. Again the rapt silence save for the humming, as Thomas looked at the painting: his eyes glittering like stars.
I had never seen this man cry, not even once before.
'Bellamy's Brook' Thomas croaked the words before
weeping openly. Elaine put her hand on his shoulder 'has been a dream that I have told to so few people for fear it would never come true. I will cherish this, come what may....thank you, Ms Faire.'
The next was Mrs. Aemeilia Holt, a name not unfamiliar to our readers. She writes in regularly with her thoughts and concerns 'bout the town. Both her son (barely a man) and her Husband were playing their part.
'I have been all alone in our tiny little home without my boys for so long that I no longer see a future for myself- could you maybe show me?'
'Have ye faith?'
'I really want to, miss'
And again Elaine began to paint- in reds and browns, greens and greys.
'May I show you this in confidence, Mrs. Holt?'
Mrs Holt stepped forward and viewed the painting and began wailing.
'I knew it, I knew it.'
'But, look-' Elaine held out her hands and took them into her own and showed her where '-You will begin again. God will provide.' and then bid her to leave the stage with a smile.
I was thoroughly absorbed by the moment at this point, but in any case I was next.I stepped before her and I felt a shortness of breath. What could I say? What would I do?
'What is your name, once more?'
'My name,' I says 'Is Mason Shaw'
She again asked her question, and I entreated her to make me believe.
She looked into the mirror- and drew closer to more clearly view the image.
Elaine let out a happy sigh as she turned to me, smiling. The darling moved swiftly, almost in flight, and she hugged me modestly before facing the both of us to the worshippers in the Chapel.
'This man will help to tell my story- Our story' Elaine chimed, brighter than the sun.
She took out a new canvas and wrote on it, in plain black ink only a few words.
I swear to you- God and the Lady’s eyes above - those words were
'It is July 4th in the year of our lord 1864,
and I, Mason Shaw, have just witnessed a miracle.'
Next was L(the rest of
this area
is blank, struck out very deliberately with dark green ink)
Then it happened. Mrs. Mary Sweet stepped up to the front of the line and she said that she absolutely had faith, but that she also had fears. I will spare her the details of what she told us about her husband, and the shadow that hung over her life. That is her private business. But when she told Elaine I saw a flash of Horror cross that Angel's eyes and I, too, felt afraid.
'Momma, please' Elaine said to Annabelle 'it's happening' But the Matriarch stood silent.
'Please' Mrs. Sweet asked. And Elaine swallowed her tears and picked up her brush.
Our Elaine looked deep into her mirror of truth.
For a moment, I could see her whisper something unheard before saying
'This is the last- I promise'
Black and Red and Blue and Green, Gray and White started swirling onto canvas, overwriting the words that I now knew I must take down. She showed us the painting. There was now chatter and gasping among the crowd. The details were faint from my place, now back at my seat in the pews -
But I recognized the image of Jesus, his wings eclipsing the sun as they did on the window of that holy place
and I knew the color of blood.
'’I’m begging you- you have to get out of here. Just leave now' Elaine pleaded towards us gathered in worship. 'O, God- save these people. Spare them and spare me.'
Mrs. Sweet was taken aback, she cowered, but she did not move. She tried to take the portrait away from Elaine's easel,
And Elaine moved to stop her.
'Please! DON’T' she cried, but Mrs. Sweet was able to pry it away.
So Elaine crawled back to the Mirror
'Help me. Anything. Please'
I thought I could hear a door opening, but I could not turn away from the stage.
'Everyone leave! If you don't...'
'What is this?' Mrs. Sweet was staring at the painting, open mouthed. There were the startings of cries from the audience.
'Something very bad is about to happen. There might still be time..' and suddenly a shout was heard
'W I T C H'
And finally my gaze broke away in time for me to turn to see Mr. Sweet step on the stage.
'Can you not see that this is devilry? Witchcraft?
I could see Elaine form the words ‘I’m so sorry’ towards sweet Mary Sweet
‘wickedness and superstition like this has cost me all I had. I will not be party to it. All of you should burn for listening to this devil’s words' quoth Donovan
Then I saw Mr. Sweet raise the axe and bring it down on his poor wife's head.
Her life poured from the gash, covering Elaine's white gown. He brought the blade up again, it must have been as high as he could lift it...almost reaching heaven, before bringing it down again on Elaine's shoulder. Her poor screams a symphony of pain.
He kicked her down to separate her body from the ax.
He kept shouting more and more, with very little of it being understandable in the slightest, but he went down into the crowd and started swinging his ax again and again.
I had never seen such violence in my life before this day.
I was far enough away by the grace of God, but I was still frozen in place. Blood rained, as Donovan Sweet carved into my neighbors And only by her grace did we survive.
Elaine had crawled her way back to the Mirror.
'Save us' I knew I could hear her say
though it was naught but a whisper.
Our attacker was only stopped by our Lady's cry.
She cried out names. Names of the people in the audience that morning. She kept yelling
'All but these will survive- have Faith' The screams were now deafening.
'Please, God give strength to those of us who will carry on and forgive me for what I must do'
I started to move. Elaine did as well, letting out a deafening cry
‘IF YOU WISH TO DO THIS, COME AFTER ME- LET THEM ALONE’ to get Mr. Sweet's attention before running to the back rooms of the church.
I, and anyone else who could move started running to the door. I climbed over the pews. I stumbled. I fell. My face was now bleeding, but I and many others finally reached the sunlight again outside again. It was stunningly quiet outside.
Annabelle Faire was there, and she started looking after the sufferers. Words started as whispers but did not rise beyond a mumble.
'I don't understand' was all I could say 'I just don't understand'
'It's not for you to understand. It's on you to survive, and to do your part, if not for the ones we lost here today- For Her'
'The things she said. Did she know?' I asked Annabelle-
‘The ink was dried- not a single word can be changed.’ Mrs. Faire took to finishing up a bandage for my head. She then moved from person to person, cleaning up the damage.
I started back towards the door of the church now looming titanic in front of me. I leaned my head against the wood for a moment
I did not dream to hope
But I believed.
I pushed open the door. It was dark, just like in Elaine's painting. Rivers of red began to gather into puddles.
The sun caught once again on Elaine's Mirror, illuminating the room ever so slightly.
Elaine was standing on the stage next to it, her robes now patterned with crimson with a shard of glass in her hand that, too, shone in the sun.
'It's over' quoth she 'It's done'
Donovan Sweet had tried after her, but Our Angel could not be cut from her course- and she by the grace of God defended us.
More came in after me, flowing past me as if I were an island in the river. Elaine took us all in her arms, one by one. I thanked her quietly in stunned silence. And then I fell to my knees.
It is by her grace and strength that we live this day. I have been unable to rest- needing urgently to reach this desk
to take this down.
My Heart Goes out to the Victims of Donovan Sweet's Cruel Act.
Mary Sweet
Arthur Wells
Sylvia Tyler
Margaret Scott
Heather Macleod
Athena Rose
Jonathan Holloway
Sarah Grant
And Donovan Sweet- May they all find peace.
There will be a Vigil by the Raven's Bridge on Friday Night- if she has her strength, the Lady Elaine Faire and her Mother will be in attendance. We all will have words.
Please, God give strength to those of us who will carry on and forgive us for what we must do.
(the following was found on a small, delicate piece of paper between this and the next page)
November 30, 1876
L,
I know that you're reading this.
I saw it happen years ago, I wonder what you've done with that advantage.
I went too far, this time, my love. It wasn't for mom, oddly enough...no one knew about her.
No, the serpent of fire that travels up the hill is for a woman of no consequence bearing your name. She used to be a servant (I know how much you hate the word Slave ) of ours, but she was meddlesome.
I have excised her name from the remainder of this hidden history (I’m certain that these pages remain hidden before and after you first read them, hallelujah) because I need for it to be yours alone, without my influence.
At any rate, she was killed. And it was for her that the serpent travels up- across Weaver's Creek, closer now.
I’m running out of time. I’ll soon place this into the hands of the only person I truly trust.
I know not its path after that, except that it leads to you.
I’ve included my side of the story- in reverse, of course- within these pages with a few hidden without.
For you, who was there for so much,
but who could never hear my voice or know my true thoughts,
this should illuminate your way.
Do you remember when we first met? All those years ago?
You, awkwardly floating in your grandmother's
dancing dress.
Remember all the wonderful things you showed me?
Some days I wish I had never investigated those infernal green lights all those years ago.
Most days, and most nights, these days I know that there was never any other path except that one up the stairs to that first moment.
Once I’m finished, and my history is out of my hands, I’ll go upstairs to try one last time to look and see your face.
I suppose that will only be shortly before all my mirrors will shatter and the fire will take me...destiny carved in stone from the moment my Angel of Time told me of my Fate.
I hope ‘gainst all hope that I failed in more than one way in that night. I pray (I've never truly prayed until this, For You) that your advantage over me has lit your way to a happier end.
O God, I pray.
I have wept every day since I took you away from me, and will weep every day between now and then: That eclipse of our existence in which I came out the sole survivor but not the victor. It is probably too late, even now, to ask you for forgiveness- especially for the things that are still to come, For You.
Anyway, for now, I love you.
I’ll always be your Sister
Elle.