In 1992, my mother, Adeline, and her family moved from Bulgaria to the United States to join the rest of her relatives. She was thirteen at the time and with her was her mom, her dad, and her older brother, Jonah. The move was difficult for her. She had to learn English, get a job, share a house with eight other people, and worst of all, make new friends. Then and now, my mother was a very reserved character that had trouble with socializing. The very opposite of Jonah. He was a bit of a delinquent and his rebellious nature quickly got him friends with other fellow troublemakers. Despite this, my mother told me that Jonah was a very caring older brother and, for a long time, he was her only friend.
But I never met my uncle Jonah. Everything I heard from him came from my mother. Not even my grandparents spoke of him. I often pestered my mother about what happened to him, but she never revealed anything. For me, and perhaps even for her, Jonah was a ghost—a story.
My mother took her life three months ago. She has left in me a profound hollowness and since the wake of her funeral, I have been searching for a way to fill it. Or, at the very least, to distract myself from it. After some searching, I took up painting. And it was while I was painting a goldfinch outside my window that I finally understood what this abyss inside my chest was. I wasn’t mourning her. Of course, I cried over her and missed her deeply, but I feel I have moved on from that. There was something else.
I hardly knew my mother. Aside from the few short stories she would tell me about her past, she told me almost nothing about herself. I don’t know what her favorite color was, her favorite animal, or what kind of music she liked. I don’t know about her time in Bulgaria, I know nothing about her childhood after it. In life, she was a stranger to me. I want to ask my dad about this, but he has been debilitated by her passing and I don’t want to bother him further.
My mother is dead, but I was determined to get to know her. I contacted my grandmother about any old belongings that she may still have of hers and she told me that in their attic, my mother had stored away several boxes before moving in with my dad. I went over there two weeks ago and recovered several boxes. The next few days, I searched through each one, trying to find answers to questions I had asked her and she refused to answer.
My mother was an avid collector of bird feathers. She stored away several scratchy drawings of them. She mainly wore blue clothes when she was younger and as she grew, she abandoned any sort of theme in her outfits. And, most notably, my mother filled dozens of journals learning to write in English.
But, I found some writings that were not in English, but in Slavic: Two journals and a wooden box filled with what appear to be letters. The journals have her name carved into the leather and the writing inside is small and sharp. But the letters appear to be almost scribbles. I had difficulty even identifying the script as Slavic.
Since then, I’ve been trying to translate the journals, which I concluded were her diaries, and the letters. Easier said than done. I could ask my parents to do it for me, but they, too, are mourning. The internet seems to be filled with resources, but doing it on my own has been slow and extremely difficult. A couple of days ago, I posted on Snapchat a post looking to hire someone who can read Bulgarian Cyrillic for translation. Thankfully, I was able to find a classmate who agreed to help me for free.
She has been able to translate several of the entries since. For the most part, these diaries seem to have been a coping mechanism. Even while living in Bulgaria, life was like a black-and-white Van Gogh painting for her, monotonous and surreal. I have been able to understand her better since these entries, but there was one that made me stop my translator from further translating her journals and begin on the letters which I know now are from her brother, Jonah.
On September 22nd of 1997, my mother wrote a long entry detailing her day. But then, she wrote the following passage:
“Jonah told me a disturbing story. He says that while Mr. Deemer was absent, and he was alone in the shop, a gentleman entered before opening. He was a tall man, and at first, Jonah got startled by him. But when the man approached him at the counter, he appeared to be very understanding and said, ‘I know you have not opened yet, but I hope I will not be turned away.’ Jonah was uncertain about providing services to the man before opening and feared Mr. Deemer might scold him, but he knew well that Mr. Deemer would never turn away money. Jonah asked the man how he could help him.
The man, who had entered holding a bundle of cloth in his arms, now placed it on the counter. ‘I need it cleaned. I will be selling it soon,’ he said. Jonah grabbed the item and found it to be extremely heavy. He unwrapped it, revealing a long black woolen coat. It was adorned with several golden buttons and had black silk lining on the inside. It was an expensive coat. ‘Very nice,’ he told the stranger, ‘it must pain you to part with it.’
The man chuckled. ‘It will relieve my pain,’ he said.
Jonah explained the dry-cleaning services, and the man selected a few that he wanted before being charged. He told him it would take three days. Jonah took the coat to the back after the man left and hung it on the rack for Mr. Deemer to clean when he arrived. Before continuing with his chores, though, Jonah admired the coat further.
He says the wool was softer than anything he had felt before, and the silk smoother than even the butter they served at Ranalli’s. The fabric was extremely heavy but not stiff. Jonah is not an expert in fancy things, none of us are, but he thought the buttons on the jacket were made of real gold. He had never seen them, but he said those buttons were genuine. The buttons on the collar were etched with the English characters ‘CD.’ And when he explored the silk pockets, he found a piece of paper.
He showed it to me then. It seemed to be a pamphlet for an island town somewhere on the west coast. It was called Briar Valley. Inside, there were several paragraphs detailing an idyllic and relatively cheap life. Jonah says that our family should move there and finally leave this overcrowded nest. Jonah says the city corrupts, and he can improve himself in a small town like this.
I told him it was too good to be true. We should be working, not dreaming. It is the only way we can move out of this house, but I doubt we will ever escape this city. Jonah agreed with me, but still, there was a lingering look on his face. The same look he has when he plans on stealing something from a store. I am deeply worried.”
___
There are several more entries before this information becomes relevant again. All throughout, she is worried about Jonah. On October 12th, in the center of a page, all she wrote was this:
“Jonah is gone,
When Jonah intends to commit a crime, there are only two things that could deter him: if a better opportunity arises or if I ask him not to. But this crime is a betrayal to his family in search of better pastures, so I doubt there was anything to stop him. He has abandoned me for that island town on the other side of this country.
I am too hurt to wish him well on his journey. I will lie and write here.
I wish you well, Jonah.”
___
Yesterday, the first of the translated letters were given to me, confirming they were from Jonah. This one isn’t dated so I’m not sure if it’s the first of the letters, it certainly doesn’t seem so. The others are dated so I’ll see where this one fits among them. My translator also says that his handwriting was absolutely atrocious, she may have made some mistakes, so make of that what you will.
I’m posting this letter to see if there’s a chance anyone has any information regarding this Briar Valley place. Perhaps I can find Jonah, who would be around forty-five right now, and learn more about my mother from him. It’s a shot in the dark, but at least I can say I tried. (BTW, there are some slightly…disturbing… elements in this letter. I don’t know, it left me feeling a little rattled.) Anyway, here’s the letter from Jonah:
“To Adeline,
Since the last time you heard from me, I have arrived on the island. Although I am still sorry, the bubbling excitement that took root in my heart the moment I left Chicago has boiled away any regret and doubt I had. I am like those birds you drew so often. I must fly as I must eat. I am flying now, Adeline. When you fledge the nest, I hope you fly to me.
To reach Briar Valley, I had to take two ferries. The first of which was called the ‘Prince of Wales’ and it took me from the snowy mainland to a rocky island. I asked the locals how I would go about getting to Briar Valley. Many looked at me a little strange. I assume it was my accent. But one older woman—Jessica, I think—told me that there was only one ferry that could get me there, the Snow Hare. She asked me about my journey and I gave her an embellished version of it. She then asked me why Briar Valley, I told her that a man recommended it to me, a man that once lived there and left. Jessica tilted her head and told me that such a thing was odd, people of Briar Valley never leave, not even to get to the mainland.
This lovely woman directed me to a lodge where I could rest and wait for the ferry to arrive from its other tours. She told me that Briar Valley was bought by a wealthy family in Britain around 1880. The island has a large mountain that was said to have gold. But when the family commissioned mining around 1930 and the miners failed to find anything, the family sold off the island to the local borough before they fled back to Europe. The miners and their families stayed in Briar Valley and have not left since.
I spent very little time there before I was off onto the frigid waters. The money I stole from Mr. Deemer will last me very long, so I bought some drinks before my departure. They do not hold any regard for the drinking laws, it seems. All the better a place, then!
When I arrived, it was sunset. On the boat, the island seemed very small. But when I touched the shore and began my trek towards what I believed was a church, the island seemed to be impossibly big. I walked for what felt like hours and it seemed I would never reach the church. The air is freezing and had it not been for the man’s coat, I probably would have frozen to death. The lady told me that the area is more often covered in snow than not.
I stopped on a hill to catch my breath (the air is also very dry) and watched as the ferry disappeared over the misty horizon. When I turned my attention back to the gravelly trail, a white rabbit had appeared on it. Its fur was a very stark contrast to the pine forest. It was staring at me, and it did so for so long that I thought it would not move if I approached it. I was wrong, of course. A single step forward and the thing bound into the trees and disappeared.
When I did reach the back of the church, there was no one there. I peeked inside the back window but saw nothing other than what one would expect to find in a church: robes, candles, tomes, metal bowls, and chalices. A bouquet of blue bell-shaped flowers was on a desk, as well as bread and a bottle of what may have been wine for communion.
I continued on from the trail in front of the church before I finally reached what must be the heart of this island, Briar Valley. However, it was not as I expected. It looked very sleepy and there was no one on the gravel roads. The buildings are sparse and they are all small. Across the step of the church was the town hall, a short way down was a post office, and on the other side was a general store, I believe. These large and old pine trees decorate all sides of the buildings, save for their face. Each one is made of painted wood, the town hall, post office, and church are white while the store is red. All of their roofs are made out of grooved steel. I thought all the buildings were like this. Then, I looked east. Near the top of the island’s mountain is a brick mansion. It appears to have two floors and its roof is shingled. It, too, is hidden among a crowd of trees.
I recently learned that there is a school and a clinic as well.
I entered the town hall first and was met by an older woman named Amanda Calderon. She has short grey hair and very warm brown eyes. ‘You are a new face,’ she said to me with a kind smile. I told her I was and showed her the pamphlet. ‘Wow,’ she said, ‘where did you get that? We made those years ago!’ I did not want to lie to her but introducing myself as a thief was even less of an appealing idea.
Amanda informed me that I am the first person to want to move on the island since the false gold rush that brought the residents here. And, best news of all, she said that there are several vacant houses whose owners have passed. Unsurprisingly, they are all extremely cheap. Cheap enough that I could buy one all in cash today. She does not recommend I do that and instead go back to the bank on the mainland and get a mortgage for it. She offered me her living room for boarding and I have gratefully accepted.
I stayed with her in the building until 9:00. I was able to briefly meet two other people, the governor, Hector Lowrey, and the priest, Clifford Martin. Both men were in a rush to get somewhere, although I cannot imagine where in a place as small as this. Amanda told Mr. Lowrey of my intention to move onto the island and all he said in reply was, ‘Good.’
Amanda and I walked down a winding trail back to her house, passing several others, each smaller than the next. As we walked, I could not help but look up at the mansion on the mountain. ‘Who lives up there?’ I asked her. ‘The Darlingtons,’ she whispered and then, more loudly stated, ‘wicked bunch.’
‘Why wicked?’
‘They are Devil dancers.’
I wanted to further inquire about these Darlington Devils but we arrived at the front step of her house, just as small as the others. Amanda made dinner for the both of us, fish soup of some kind. She told me that her husband passed two years back and she is glad to have someone sit across from her for dinner. We said grace before we ate. Amanda poured herself some tea and offered me some, though, as you know, I hate it. However, I agreed out of politeness and just tried not to let the liquid linger in my mouth. Unlike me, she seems to be a devout lover of tea as she drank a whole kettle of it. Had she offered me some hot coffee, I could have drank the same amount.
Amanda offered me several blankets and pillows to sleep on her sofa with. I thanked her and she turned off all the lights in the house and the both of us were off to bed.
Something occurred, during the night, though. I mean not to scare you, Adeline, but I feel this is something I must tell you because you are the only person I can tell this to.
I woke up during the night to a strange sound. It was human in tone, in several tones. It sounded like multiple voices, their incoherent words spoken through strangled throats and all of them entangled. As I rubbed the sleep away from my eyes, the speaking suddenly stopped, and I froze. Dread seeped into my stomach. I held my breath.
A moment later, I heard a tapping on the front door. Light and rapid. Three sharp knocks. My hands were still over my eyes and I dared not move them. My chest had begun to ache from holding my breath and as I was about to exhale, the knocking came again. But I had to exhale. And so, I did. Instantly, the knocking turned to an incessant banging and I flinched so hard, I uncovered my eyes.
A meter from my face was a man’s, but a man it was not.
The front door was open and through the slight crack and from the darkness had conjured what I could only describe as Hell incarnate. Wrinkled skin covered a stack of thick winding necks that snaked through the door and across the living room, ending in the head that stared at me then. Two flesh-covered horns atop and behind the head pointed backward while two short ones beneath its chin pointed toward me. In the center of its star-arranged horns was most horrible of all, its face. It was bald and devoid of any character. The face’s eyes were completely white and the skin around it hung loosely. Its bottom lip was folded outward, baring the bottom row of perfectly white teeth. Deep cuts ran from the corner of the mouth to far behind the head and into the lump of skin connecting it to the neck.
My heart seized within me, a fleeting moment of death-like stillness. Darkness engulfed the room, and an overwhelming terror consumed every fiber of my being, coursing through me like a surge of electricity. My chest and abdomen and I could feel nothing but horror. As it was Hell incarnate, I was fear incarnate.
I was screaming. I screamed so loud I could taste blood in the back of my throat. I began to choke and cough and cry. I could not ask God for help for I knew, He, too, feared this beast.
I waited for it to kill me as it wanted to. But it did not. When the ache in my chest turned painful and black holes burned in my vision, the beast began to reel its head out of the house. Slowly, like a worm, it receded back into the night it was born from. And then it was gone. The front door was still open and I was dying. Before I fell unconscious, a man’s hand closed the door from outside.
It is morning now. Amanda has offered me tea but I refuse to drink it. My heart is fine. Everything was so peaceful and quiet, I tried to convince myself it had all been a nightmare. But while I was writing this letter, an itch formed in my throat. I coughed into my sleeve and droplets of blood now stain it.
I will be staying elsewhere for the next night, farther away from the mountain that houses those Devil worshippers. I will be fine, though, Adeline. I plan on visiting the priest. I hope he can help me.
I love you dearly, little sister, and I miss you deeply.
Sincerely,
Jonah.”