(Foreword to Raven’s Bridge (2005), Marianne Faire.)

It has been eight years since I've seen even one page of the story you're now reading

The last time I saw these words, they were in pieces on the floor of my childhood bedroom, torn apart

out of fear, if I'm being truly honest.

I have been stuck in this town for too long, all those years: that is, I have continued to live in Raven's Bridge and have continued to try to find more of its secrets.

What you see before you is nothing less than my first child,

since then I've stopped being a child myself

and had a real child of my own

But when this one was returned to me,

stitched together from stories that all but I- and perhaps some that have now long gone -

have forgotten about, God help Me, I forgot all about my son for a moment.

I forgot everything except for those trees, standing huddled in endless chaotic lines down the hill , past markers carved into them by girls who'd lived and fought and loved there then but haven't been seen in years,

and down to the river

and, above the river, two towers of solid stone bridged by a slab of granite that had fallen from one of them centuries before I was born but slept snugly between them.

Nothing else occupies my mind as I read these resurrected pages. This resuscitated memory.

Nothing but the haunted stone, and the endless natural graveyard of living wooden headstones

for people I'm no longer sure

ever lived at all.

___________________________________________________________________________

When I started writing Raven’s Bridge in the Autumn of 1994, we were already leaving the age of vanishing. Now, in the age of the internet- the place you are likely reading these words at this very moment- it is almost impossible to disappear without a trace. Cameras are everywhere, owing to events and changes in society that I and those before me could never have foreseen.

As such, there are enough traces of Lydia to make a portrait approaching verisimilitude.

Unfortunately, we also now live in an age where images have gotten even better at lying.

We can take images out of their original time and place and surgically remove their context

Now we can even craft images wholesale from the fragments of others.

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, so one must understand the power of the right image at the right time (or the wrong image and time) and temper their belief of the presentation of reality by outside sources with motives- because now even if there are photos, there is no proof.

Even the smile that I see in the images that I downloaded from Lydia’s computer or social media accounts before they were removed could be a lie, and that context may be the key to understanding what happened.

So. Who was Lydia? I will go into the depths of our history in due time, but I mean: who was she when we lost her?

(Descriptive text: an image of a woman in her early twenties, smiling with her mouth but not with her eyes. Her hair has been dyed blue, but has twirls of her original dark brunette throughout. Her teeth are somewhat yellowed, but straight- it is a beautiful smile by most anyone’s standards. An arm can be seen around her shoulder, but the image has been cropped to remove the other person. A caption in the top right says that the image was posted by David Alexander Ash.)

Lydia Faire was a lot like many girls in her generation. She wasn’t born into the role, but took to it as soon as she became truly aware that it was an option.

She was, for as long as I can remember, absolutely enamored with music. God, the music. Lydia was a fair singer, but her skill lay mainly on the piano and violin. She worked hard, and studied harder. The phrase that opens this work is from one of her few compositions with words: Traveller. The song itself tells me all that I need to know about her mindspace when she was studying up north.

It’s difficult for me to know much about her lifestyle while she was at college, she did not have many friends and the ones who she was actively close to are intensely difficult to track down and speak with.

From her personal effects, particularly a small photo album full of tickets, I learned that she frequented a small theater that would show movies that had been out of cinemas for several months. She did not discriminate, watching pretty much whatever was in the theater when she was there. And there were multiple brochures from the campus transgender support group, where I can only hope that she found a sense of community and friendship to match what she had when she was a child.

The rest is just a series of holes where Lydia should be. People who studied with her in the music program thought of her as deeply troubled- she had infrequent outbursts, which was typical of what anyone who knew her could tell you. A few people noted that when she did speak she was very insightful, but that her sense of humor was greatly underdeveloped- she did not react well to humor, especially humor surrounding herself or her presentation.

Online, she posted an immense amount of selfies during her first year, showing that Lydia had gained a terrific amount of skill with makeup. Mostly standard stuff, she made posts that suggested that she had put in a genuine attempt at dating while she was there. One of her electives, meanwhile, was a class for makeup effects, and she posted a number of pics of her as characters or animals or monsters. The last of such posts was a halloween post in which she had dressed in a vintage dress and corset, with half of her face covered in a particularly dramatic prosthetic making her look like she had been burned alive. Along with this was the caption ‘guess who?’

Comments on the post clarify that no one was able to.

After that, her posting almost stops entirely, with only posts on May 2nd of each year where she would share an image from the game that she and her friends had made when she was still in high school, an adaptation of a film that she and ‘The Girls’ or ‘The Driftwood Girls’ (sharing the name of the film itself) watched adapted using the framework of a card game that they had developed among themselves. May 2nd was a day they had assigned importance to, as it was the day that the main character of the film washed ashore.

On the subject of The Girls, Lydia was living with two of the members of her friend group who had happened to be in the city on unrelated business- Mallory Hayward and Tara Blessed.

I was able to reach Mallory (now more widely known by her pseudonym Guenevere) while doing research for this project. She was apologetic, saying that she had fallen out of contact with anyone back East during her own journey (noting that it was ‘just me and Tara’ for a significant period of time). She was sweet, once I was able to get past her agent and staff, even dedicating a performance of Traveller at a show in some town nobody would remember the name of. She noted that she (and by extension Tara) were out of the house most of the time, so Lydia ended up having the whole apartment to herself for significant periods of time.

‘Tara did most of the emotional upkeep. I’m sorry, but Lydia was. She was convinced she was doomed, and kind of took it out on others at times. It was hard. If you’re able to find Tara, you might be able to get more information. If you find her, could you tell her (REDACTED)’

I did not, however, find Tara. The suggestion was made that she had changed her name (something she did fairly frequently) and was living incognito. Either way, she was a dead end.

It would be some time between Lydia’s initial disappearance and my discovery of her diaries. As such, anyone else mentioned in those pages was long gone by the time that I read their name. What I can say with some certainty is that there was next to no mention of Elaine during this period of her life. It seems that, during the four years she was studying, Lydia had experienced a time of relative peace from her curse. I will admit that I’m greatly reassured by this.

Four years of solitude

Against a lifetime where she constantly felt watched.

I simply cannot imagine.

But all that slipped away when, early in 2020, Lydia suddenly came home.

_____________________________________________________________________

The Secret Diary of Lydia Faire Volume 13, (Lydia Aged 22- this was found in a College Ruled Notebook in the Safe Room of the Second Faire House after its burning on 11/30/2020)

February Eighteenth, 2020

Hey Lydia- can you guess where I am right now?

It has been so long since I last wrote here that the world has shifted and changed, becoming unrecognizable from the world I intended to inhabit..

I had thought that I was getting better. Perhaps that is why I stopped talking to you.

I am sure of this, in fact. There is no need to write down my thoughts to organize them if my life is in order. I know that this is nonsense, but there it is.

The winter recitals and the fall out from them have taught me that the sand is still flowing from one end of the hourglass to the other and no amount of running can save me from my own mind.

It is a yearly thing, the winter recitals. An opportunity to flex what one has learned in front of not only an audience but also the other professors in the faculty. My hope had always been that one of them would take notice and vouch for me to their friends in high places- that I would be able to find work if I did well.

If I did well. What a joke.

It was not one hundred per cent my fault. While I was already shaking before I even arrived that evening, all the way back to setting my makeup before leaving, the actual breakdown started with an off-tempo accompaniment. I am least confident in my voice of all the instruments I command, but something about feeling the speed of underlying music (which I could easily have provided myself, had I granted myself the confidence to do so) undulate in tempo and timing….it felt like carrying a large stack of boxes and feeling them begin to topple over. My breathing shortened, weakening notes that I had sung a thousand times before.

I tried to imagine Mal singing alongside me, her voice strengthening my own as it had when we practiced together at home, but her voice in my mind drowned out my own. I started to hear the missed notes. And all of a sudden I wasn’t singing

I wasn’t speaking

I wasn’t even standing silent, as I did as a habit for years on years.

I was screaming. It took a moment for people to realize what was happening.

I watched all this as a passenger in my own mind. People looked confused, like they had no idea what was happening, before Professor Anton started walking up to the stage.

My body stood stiff as a board. I didn’t cower from him. I just stood there. I swear I didn’t choose to do this. I was locked in place. But then he grabbed me and I just started flailing, still not conscious of what my body was doing. I hit him in the face and started hearing people crying out in outrage and disgust. I was still just screaming.

I was in the clinic when I truly became conscious of my actions again.

I asked what was going on, and tried slowly to build up my ability to speak.

There was no patience for me as I was doing this.

Everyone acted as if I had chosen this, like I was throwing a tantrum. I tried making my case, but no one wanted to hear it. Anton did not speak to me, instead sending an e-mail after my fate had been sealed.

It was decided, first, that I would be taking a break. That I was clearly stressed from overworking myself. But I tried vouching for myself….and I only made things worse.

In any case, I know I will not be welcome there again.

So I came home, hoping that The Girls would be able to comfort me or at least they would have some weed left to just bash my brain into submission until the storm had passed.

But there was nothing there. Well, my things were still there, but I had arrived after they did so most of the things in the apartment were theirs. It was like the rapture, all of the things belonging to those angels vanished to whatever heaven they left to, but the items belonging to the sinner (me) were left to collect dust.

They left a post it note. Not even a real note, a post it note.

Lydia love,

We’ve flown away,

we’ll let you know when we land.

Love and Shelter,

M+T

And I was truly alone for the first time. The first time in my life, I think. Along with the post-it note was a stack of cash along with a single card, one that had been mine long ago- Victoria, the pirate queen, which I had lost in a duel with Mal years before.

They likely intended for the money to keep me housed until the end of the month, but I have no interest in staying in this box without my girls. I do not have anywhere near the amount of experience necessary to support myself in this city, either. Any road that winds here ends in me being just another crazy bitch on the street.

I feel so weak. I had told myself that, by being up here so far away from her influence, that I was successfully avoiding my destiny. She has no idea where I am, to the best of my knowledge. I’ve seen her once since I moved here, at an antique store that Tara took me to.. Such peace. And all of that falls apart because I am unwilling to risk homelessness to fight for more time.

A few months. Just a few months and I would be safe.

Is my comfort truly worth more than my life? My dreams?

In any case, I took the money, stored it in my account, and bought a bus ticket. I did not want to fly, and besides I doubt I could have afforded it.

I only called mom once I was already on my way.

Is that manipulative? Is it manipulative that I waited until she could hardly say no to ask her for help?

I just could not handle her turning me away. I do not know how likely a no would be but I simply do not know how I would react if she did.

As she could not say no, she did not say no.

So a day and a half’s bus ride and more than five hundred miles away from the home that my girls and I had built for each other. Anna hugged me and looked into my eyes with this kind of depressed acceptance, one not unlike the one that I wear around almost everywhere. My boss at work asked me, suggestively, if I knew what ennui was. I didn’t then, but I think I truly do now.

She told me she loved me, but she could not bring herself to say that she was proud of me for how far I had gotten. Then again, all she knows is the failure and the weakness.

We got home and I will not lie…. I was crushed to see how she was living- still in that trailer that Grandma had bought for her, clutter everywhere, and a distinct smell that I could not place hanging in the air. But we shared three or maybe four sentences between us. I laid down on the shitty twin bed that I’d grown up in and looked at the empty spot in the corner of my room where Elle’s mirror used to live. Small markings on the floor were the only evidence that she had ever been here. Anna stayed in the living room watching TV, but eventually fell asleep.

Once I could be sure Anna was asleep, I checked under the floorboards in the hallway and found the previous entries of my memoirs- I will have to move them somewhere else soon, but I’m glad they haven’t been found or damaged by weather.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

And then I put on my coat, grabbed a flashlight from the closet, and walked into the back yard. The ground was always far too soft, giving way underfoot in a way that always reminded me of the idea of quicksand. So I, like I did every time before, danced hopscotch across the small open area before the line of trees that walled off our tiny patch of land opened up.

Just off the middle, if viewed from the back porch, is a tree with a marking at eye level.

I never asked mom what the symbols meant, but she was the one who carved them.

One marker, then another, on and on down the trail in the dark.

No sounds. It is too early for the cicadas, and all the strange creatures and critters who walked the woods were silent tonight. Silence save for the crunching of branches and the few remaining leaves yet to decompose on the forest floor.

I was about halfway there when the forest was abruptly illuminated.

I shielded my eyes, by then accustomed to the dark of night, and looked through the trees and still I was unable to see the source- but there it was, A harsh green, blinking in the night. Consistent enough to be a pattern, but definitely not morse from my understanding of it.

I had lost my bearings meters ago. All I could see was what was immediately in front of me before the green light started blinking, but now I could see for moments, seconds at a time, the naked trees huddled together for winter and the uneven ground between me and whence the lights must be made.

I walked towards the light for moments blindly, almost entranced.

But as the lights grew brighter, I kind of got scared. Like- Go into the light, Lydia! Go into the light. But no, tonight is not my night.

Then I started recognizing the trail markers.

My mother’s trail markers that she made with the girl from the woods.

And I realized my destination.

I stopped at the edge of the woods outside of the Faire House-

I was close enough now. The blinking, this time, was from Christmals lights.

I could see a much fainter, yellow light through the windows, deep within the

Cavernous hallways, in the very heart of the home that once belonged to my family.

I thought, for a moment, that I could see a woman standing in the window watching me. I backed further into the dark of the woods, thinking that it must be her and she must now know

I am home.

Looking at the clock on my phone, I realized that it was well into the morning now. I would need to get moving. So I clicked the flashlight back on, andI followed Raven and Anna’s markers down to my original destination.

The stone of the Raven’s bridge was slightly outlined, edges shining silver- the blade of a knife -by the very early morning light

I climbed up the stairs, which were damp and mossy- it must have stormed very recently- on my hands and knees. Looking down at them now I can see the dirt stains.

Shame, but I from here it feels worth it. From here, I can see pretty far, the sky beginning to turn grey above.

The lights of the House were dimmed by the rising natural light. I can see the dark green of the forest all around me, stretching for miles with only a few cursive lines cut through the trees where cars ran to and from the various hollers, and I can see the granite keeping me from hurtling into the swollen and brown river below.

When the river is like this, the fall does not look deadly at all. It doesn’t even look dangerous.

A little further, Lydia

But here I am, alone atop the Raven’s Bridge, writing by flashlight the opening to what feels like the final chapter of my life. I wonder if David or Petra are still in town. I hope not, but I feel like they’re right where I left them.

Lydia, you’re the strongest woman I know in spite of your failings. You have soared to heights that neither Elle or Anna could have imagined for you, and in the remaining days you will fight for every last minute. I love you.

I can't believe we're here, at last. Not long now.

Best of luck,

Lydia Faire.

__________________________________________________________________________

Raven’s Bridge North Carolina is named after a landmark with history that goes back as far as anybody has kept records in the area. I’ve traced residency of the land as far back as it goes - the branch of the Cherokee nation that first saved songs of the Bridge has a song whose name roughly translates to ‘Where do you lead?’, a ballad said to be the tale of its first discovery by two ill fated lovers. Some almost entirely faded markings on the stone underneath the bridge, screaming into the river below suggest the history goes further than that.

The bridge is historically known as a place of love or a place of death. The name it was given is focused on the latter usage- the Raven’s Bridge was frequently used as a suicide spot, and as such carrion have learned not to stray too far if they want an easy meal. As my research would uncover, it was also used for ritual sacrifice in the 1800s. Don’t worry, the combination of event and date should make you nervous. These ritual murders weren’t made by some backwater savages though stories may tell you that’s more likely. They were carried out by my own family- Flesh and blood, just three generations before.

______________________________________________________________________

Mirrors 23:1

What follows is the rite of crossing,

A ritual unique to the Faire and the walking-

The holiest for travelers on the mirrored path

And a hand to guide the mark’d to death.

One so marked shall be so with paint,

The color prophesied by the Lady our Saint

The lady will paint them, as then and always,

So that we, she, and they know the way.

And once this is done, we shall count days

The counting is thirteen, as then and always

Until the time of crossing, holy day and night.

And at dusk we will take them and bind them tight

The faithful will be armed, in one hand a knife

And in the other a lantern, burning with holy light.

Faire Elaine will hold bound hand of the Blind

And lead them and their sins e’en further behind

Lights clear paths through the darkest woods

O’er The winding hills the trail will be walked by the good

To the holy gate- the towering bridge that ravens own

And up stairs to the stage to reap what’s sewn

Scripture shall the lady read, from this book or hers

And the bound shall be allowed to speak a verse

At this time, all lanterns will be emptied of light

The green flame left to fall in the dark- in the night

And then it shall be, by blade or by stone

By blood and by bone

and by throat and by heart

That the bound will Depart from the land of the livin’

And cross to our time, the time that we’re given.

And after this all faithful know

The end will come and the start shall go

That fate will come, regardless of haven

And all have a path to the bridge of ravens

____________________________________________________________________________

There is a saying

Everyone has a path to the Raven’s Bridge

Which is, surprisingly, more true literally than metaphorically. Almost every house within 3 miles of the bridge has a foot path leading into the woods and- if you follow those forking paths long enough- you will find yourself there. If you were to map out these trails, as I have, you would see a series of winding lines leading out from a central point- like the cracks in a windshield caused by a gunshot.

The slab of stone that makes up the bridge portion of the Raven’s Bridge is situated 100 feet above Weaver’s Creek, a branch of the River Moira. Stairs have been carved into the mountains of stone on either side, allowing people to climb up to the very top. Places like this have a mystique to them- whether from a literal ripping of threads or simply an illusory effect of so many stories ending there (stories left with those who remain), the fabric of life and death seems thinner and more worn there.

The town would like the place to be known for its majestic beauty, but will settle for it being a sordid rendezvous when faced with the darkest option. Lovers go for the excitement of potentially being party to a little death during their own- the desperate go to maybe be stopped or spotted by someone- their paths rarely cross. Most people have personal history there as well. I’ve gone with my family- with Lydia and my Parents, and with Raven, and once, when everything felt lost and I needed to feel grounded, with myself.

But it would be a long time before it would give the town itself a name.

The area’s first name as a town was, paradoxically, Driftwood. It was so named by my Great Great Great Great Grandparent Victor(ia) Faire, a pirate whose name is now associated with a grand variety of ghost stories themselves, but it was Victor(ia) who, with wood harvested from their ship and the hands of their disciples, built the first Faire House. The Pirate would disappear before the house was finished,

And Faire’s Daughter Annabelle, who was born at sea, would never leave land again. She would, in any situation that made it possible, avoid talking about her progenitor.

____________________________________________________________________

L,

Wow- if you could feel the freedom I feel right now. I did it.

Anna didn’t even know! The bitch smiled at me as the steam from her tea billowed upwards- not for a moment warning her as it warmed her. She tried speaking to me of the desert- not knowing, even then.

I would never tell her. You, I, and the few who remain of My Friends on This Side are the only ones who will ever know.

Of course she was simply digging for incriminations. She was intending to betray me, you see? Of course you do. How could you, sister, not understand what I understand.

She had been poisoned against me by the people of my town. My town.

None the least among them the Hayward girl.

That…..well. You know what she is.

You know what I want to call her.

So she asked. I told her only the beginning of the truth- I told her of the first winter.

I told her how the people that she had given to me had wasted and died

And the things those of us who survived had to do.

I didn’t tell her about the Scorpion-

No one can know the things we did in the night.

No one can know the venom poured into my body- only you and only me.

She’d noticed the difference in my demeanor.

‘Are you ill?’ She’d asked when I first arrived. I like how I look now. The way the venom drains away the nasty color that had burned into my skin that reminds me of the Scorpion. Worse it reminds me of *****....I mean, the Hayward Girl.

‘No, mother. I am taking a medicine’

‘Whatever for, love?’ She called me that- why’d she think I’d allow that? Does the bitch think that four years or so of summer thawed out the ice that she froze me in?

Does she think I forgot about the room- so cold and so empty- that she locked the door to when you and me were only children?

‘I was poisoned on the path, Annabelle’

And that was the end of the discussion for a while. She didn’t even suspect.

She did, however, judge me for the effects it had on me.

She saw the happy little clouds swirling around my head- the venom scaring away the demons You, She, and the Others had put in my mind.

All the doubts. All the images of You, looking me dead in the eye as you….

Well- you know.

She saw me happy and thought it was a deeper sickness. She called it a drug.

It is medicine.

It is, however, medicine that Annabelle herself could not handle. She simply fell asleep- face forward into her tea. I wonder if she even felt the heat on her face or if she was dead already.

Anyway- How are you? You’re still silent on your side. If you keep ignoring me….I may be forced to do something rash. Have you read about the crossing yet?

Do you know what I can do to you?

What I’ll do to you, if you don’t love me?

I poisoned my mother’s Tea

But I can poison your world.

Think about it. If I let you be marked, we both know how it ends.

Love and Kisses,

Elle.

____________________________________________________________________

The first Faire House was much like the second- a massive hulk of a structure in the classical style. From the front, greco-roman pillars rose to keep a long, seldom occupied, porch dry. A great many windows look into walls of darker wood. I imagine that at the time it was even darker than I remember it, as the mirrors that ricocheted light within after Elaine’s rise (Mirrors that would be included in the second Faire House’s design as well) had not yet been added. On the back were more windows and a large, too steep, hill down into the forest below.

It is said that the wood of the house had turned a cloudy grey before its destruction.

The second house, in which I lived, was only ever white as I lived there. It is true that there were very few differences between the first and second house. One was a small panic room that my father added in my late teens, just after my brief abduction (see Raven’s Bridge for more information) and a difference in measurement of the master bedroom.

Father was never able to explain that difference,

In my research, and in the letters I’ve found, I have come to believe it accounts for a secret compartment behind a mirrored wall in the room. This is where Elaine would hide when she became fearful of her subjects and those who opposed her.

This is where she would form prophecies during her last days.

The first Faire house was burned down in 1876. Not much is written about what happened- I think this is by design.

I believe there was a deliberate attempt to erase Elaine and her followers from History

This is likely why I had not heard the name until Lydia first said it

There seems to be a historical embarrassment about the event. In either case, Elaine’s Brother Christopher Faire returned shortly after this and began the process of rebuilding the house.

__________________________________________________________________

L,

It’s nice to know that you are home. I myself have been back for two months now.

I saw you this evening- You looked into the mirror, but not into my eyes.

Why?

I won’t go away. You know that.

I saw the mud on your hands, did you go to the bridge again?

It’s so late.

And the burns on your arm- tsk tsk- Are you smoking again?

I…..I just realized- are you tormenting yourself specifically so I will be inhabiting a ruined house when I cross?

Well- a ruined house would hardly be new for you.

Does it hurt that Anna is still so poor?

Does it hurt you that she couldn’t save you? That she couldn’t fund your exploits like Mother did mine?

Broke Ass Whore.

Please, if you read this At the Right Time- I’d love to talk like we used to. Even if just briefly. I’m sorry about your friend- I didn’t know that would happen.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I don’t know what else to say tonight

Ever Your Beloved Curse,

Elle.

___________________________________________________________________

And the Second Faire House and Christopher’s line of the family were what survived, begetting branch after branch until finally at the lowermost point of the Faire Family tree was My father and then me.

Part of me wishes I didn’t need to speak about Vera and My father- all the crushed dreams and crushed flowers that led to my creation.

But for you to understand my daughter

And for you to understand the things that I myself did that might have contributed to her path…..I know I must.