Marvelous Tales #10 – June Gloom

June Gloom @lethargicwriter

If the man were here under different circumstances the ivy that delicately snaked up the walls of the coastal home would have felt like a wonderful addition. Now they only helped to further cement the journalist's belief that this villa truly was as old and neglected as the tabloids had claimed. The well-dressed man shifted back and forth in place, tugging at his collar as he tried to pinpoint what exactly had put him in such a despondent mood.

The tightness in his head could most likely be associated to the multiple hours he had just spent driving down the Pacific Coast. The June Gloom had devoured what little joy this scenic and winding road could have offered him. He pinched his brow and shut his eyes in an effort to will away the fog that still drifted in his head. Two hours of cautious driving through a snaking cliffside path was bound to make even the best of drivers nauseous.

The journalist reached out and knocked on the door again, his impatience escaping through the hurried raps of his knuckles. Maybe it wasn't the physical strain that had put him in such a foul temper, but the sinking feeling that he might've just wasted half his day chasing after a story that had no hopes of garnering momentum.

Maybe it was as simple as the fact that the mat below his feet wasn't welcoming him at all.

"Go. Away." The man muttered to himself, cracking a reluctant smile as he read the message sewn into the mat aloud.

It didn't take long before the telltale sound of shoes on hardwood floor could soon be heard from beyond the entrance. The glum look that had been plastered to the journalist's face quickly began to vanish; each footstep helping to coax the man's face into a more courteous one. The journalist knew how difficult it would be to shake off a bad first impression... especially in his line of work.

---

The woman who stood at the doorway remained silent, as if refusing to speak first. She squinted at the man standing before her, only taking her hands off the door for the slightest of moments to tuck a strand of black hair back behind her ear. The journalist had yet to identify the source of the cold grimace she was currently giving him. The woman's face seemed frozen in an indifferent stare, her stark facial features only further accented by the black turtleneck that hugged against her frame. A part of him hoped that this was simply how her face looked at rest... But his instincts warned him otherwise.

"Juniper Wilson? I'm the journalist you called?" The journalist acknowledged her hesitantly, extending his hand out towards the woman. "My name is-"

The widow quickly shied away from the entrance as he reached outwards, pulling the door back to allow her guest room to step inside.

"Please." She interrupted. "Call me June. Now come inside. The weather out there is dreadful."

All accounts had claimed that the author’s home was in a state of disrepair. The wild and unkempt walkway served as evidence of this, but the pristine condition of the grand foyer was a clear indication to the contrary. Dual staircases lined either side of the great hall, wrapping around the curved entryway before meeting at the balcony above.

The writer came to a stop at a large circular table arranged in the center of the open room. Almost every inch of its glass surface was covered in bouquets of various shapes and sizes. Handwritten cards sat perched amidst them, their contents undoubtedly expressing sentiment towards the late Earl Wilson and his wife. It’d been quite some time since then… yet she'd still kept the potted ones in good health.

It seemed that the tabloid's conjecture of a neglected home was just that: a presumption. So far the journalist had little reason to accredit the stories of the fired help as accurate… yet the journalist knew better than to dismiss all accounts too soon. If they had stepped forward to paint this widow in a poor light, they must have done so for a reason.

"It's a... Beautiful place you have here." He stated, glancing back at the woman in question as she joined him in the foyer. The man’s compliment had been a genuine one; the warmly lit room already helping to chip away at the strain he had amassed on his trip over.

"I can only assume you're the man I spoke to over the phone?" June spoke up, ignoring the praise. Her sullen gaze was fixated on the various floras that sat atop the center table.

"Er, yes. It is. We spoke over-"

"I'd prefer 'I am'." She interrupted once more, turning to look up at the man.

"Pardon?" He frowned; the flow of the conversation feeling like it had suddenly been swept out from beneath his feet.

"I asked you if you're the man I spoke to. You responded with 'it is'. An 'I am' would have been clearer."

"Yes, but..." The man began to lean back and forth on his feet as he carefully thought over his response. "But couldn't I have been using 'it is' as if I were stating 'it is I'?"

A smile crept onto her face as she began to walk down the hall. "Yes, but no one in their right mind is going to respond to a question like that with 'it is I'… Not in this day and age, at least."

The man opened his mouth to retort before quickly closing it. Was she testing him? Regardless, this was not the time to get into an argument over grammar, even if his journalistic pride was on the line. He hung his head and quickly followed the woman deeper into the manor.

---

June's tour of the house was short and to the point. It was clear to the journalist that the woman knew how to entertain guests. However, whether or not she enjoyed this company was lost on the gentleman. All of the doors in the home were kept closed. She'd pause in front of a room, talk about it for a moment, and then open the door for him. Each of the rooms was well furnished, and Mrs. Wilson often made her fondness for the house quite clear.

"I was asked if I would be moving out of the estate after he passed." June began, scoffing harshly as she made her way towards the next room in her tour. "This was our dream home. We spent years making this a place we could call our own."

The vistas of the California coast below were breathtaking. Even on a cloudy day like today one could still see waves crashing against the shoreline from any number of their windows. As the tour continued, the journalist felt himself beginning to empathize with June. Her husband had been a public figure for so long, and with his passing that publicity had shifted onto her. The journalist found himself taking comfort in the notion that this attention wouldn't last for long... The widow's peace would come in time.

"He started to paint near the end. We changed the guest bedroom into a room for his art. I was never one to say no to his creativity." June explained, coming to a stop in front of one of the last rooms atop the second story. "You may go inside if you like, but I have no intention of stepping foot inside there again."

The journalist had already gripped the doorknob, but her last remark made the man hesitate. He turned to her, the widow's tired and sunken expression offering him no resolution. The photos framed all throughout her house had captured moments of her smiling and laughing… one hand wrapped around her husband. Now June's brow was furrowed in discomfort, arms folded tightly around her as she hugged her own frame.

In the end, the journalist's curiosity had gotten the better of him. Before he knew it, the well-dressed man found himself twisting the door open. He took a single step inside; grip tightening around the doorknob as he scanned the room.

Natural light barely filtered through the drapes of a half closed window, illuminating the rather simply dressed bedroom. It housed a single bed, an easel, and a comfy looking stool to rest on. All three objects faced the far end of the room. The journalist frowned as he tried to make out what exactly was pinned to the wall opposing him. It was… A white linen sheet? Each corner of it had been driven into the wall with nails. The material was stretched taught, and the man could barely make out the shape of something beneath it... Something tall... Thin...

"That would be the mirror that my husband drove his face through." The widow spoke up, her eyes darting towards the room before quickly averting her gaze. June's entire body looked like it had curled inwards, her face wound up in a tight grimace.

"I'm not fond of this part of the house, as you can probably guess." She continued. "My psychiatrist told me to take the door out. If I 'refuse' to enter the room, I should at least acclimate to seeing what's inside of it every time I walk by it. She called it 'exposure therapy'."

The man took a quick glance at the brass knob in his grip. "You still have the door, though."

June gave the reporter another quick smile. "Yes. But I don't have the psychiatrist."

---

"This is the study." June began, her head trained on what little of the floor was still visible. Her footsteps were slow and calculated as she wound her way over the cluttered floorboards. "It's where I spend most of my time."

The well-dressed male nodded slowly as he felt the gilded door click shut behind him. He closed his mouth into a thin frown as he tried to comprehend the chaotic mess before him. The room was a stark contrast to the rest of the estate. It was as if a hurricane had torn its way through the study, knocking over drawers and shelves in its wake. Their contents littered the floor, papers and supplies alike strewn about in a seemingly nonsensical fashion.

"Mind the mess, please." She called out to the journalist behind her.

"W-Will do, ma'am." He spoke curtly, shaking his head slightly as he slowly made his way into the center of the room.

"This was the study, until I... Re-purposed it. The rest of the house just feels... Too big nowadays. But in here my mind feels clearer. Like I can think." June explains, giving her guest a polite smile as she stands amidst the chaos.

The journalist could only nod. It was too early to make any comment. For now it was best to focus on the task at hand. His eyes darted between June and the collage of information around her. Local newspapers, pages torn from her husband's novels, and an assortment of other media had been strung up along the wall.

Abandoned manuscripts and early drafts covered almost every inch of the late writer's expensive looking desk. To any other person the room must have appeared to be in a state of disorder, but the journalist had already begun to identify a method to the widow's madness. Mrs. Wilson had constructed a tree of evidence along one of the walls of the study. Each piece of paperwork she had mounted to the wall found their purpose through strings and color-coordinated sticky notes.

A hundred new questions poured into the journalist's head as his mind hurried to catch up with the bounty of new information in front of him. There was a story here. Whether it was one worth printing at a reputable news station was another question. The whole room already reeked of conspiracy, and the Daily Days didn't deal with most nuts.

Most.

“Your husband wrote quite a bit of work over the years. I’ve had the... Displeasure of picking up one in the past.” The man explained, nodding at a rather large stack of original prints in the corner of the room.

June gave a small laugh, not bothering to turn from the wall of information before her. The journalist pondered just how much of her mourning process had been spent in this cramped room. She caught his eye and gave him a thin smile, one that would have appeared feigned on anyone else. "I hear that a lot. I doubt many would come to Earl for bedtime stories... But that's what I loved about him."

The widow let her smile fade as she stared back at the reporter; the blue of her eyes a stark contrast to the muted tones of the room around her. "I couldn't tell you how many men have tried to sweet me off my feet... Painting the story of our lives in vibrant and glorious tales. Earl had always been different. We met at a fundraiser, danced for a few songs, and promptly told me I had two left feet."

June chuckled at the memory, a bit of color returning to her cheeks as she shook her head.

"And then... You married him?" The journalist asked, his brow furrowing at the conclusion.

"Oh heavens, no." The widow waved a hand dismissively. "It took a whole year before we warmed up to each other. Even longer until we found ourselves... comfortably happy."

June froze in place as her expression began to soften from the recollection. She stayed like that for a moment, as if a distant memory were replaying itself before her very eyes. The journalist didn't dare move; not until June finally tore her gaze away from whatever had captivated her.

"A-And now... I found myself in a situation where I am neither calm nor pleased." The woman held her breath for a moment, her shoulders sagging as she looked out across the ruined study. A look of exasperation flashed across her face as she let out a sigh of frustration.

"You must understand that I've tried almost everything. You are not the first professional I've talked to, but I'm hoping that you'll stay longer than the rest. My shrink told me there was nothing wrong… That I was simply mourning." June paused, scoffing at the audacity of her situation. She held her jaw at a crooked angle, eyes lilting up and down as she stared at the web of information she had painstakingly pinned to the wall. "I wonder... What you'll think of me..."

"You see, I-" The widow hesitated, pausing as she turned to look the journalist in the eyes. She wrung the sleeves of her turtleneck nervously as she tried to find the right words.

"I think they're all connected. The books, that is."

---

Hi there! This was my first real attempt at trying to write something for Steemit, and it was all thanks to the @marveloustales contest by @playfulfoodie. All I had to go off of were the words “widow” and “mirror”. The concept of a mourning woman grasping at the remnants of a late-husband’s work was something I’ve always wanted to try and tackle.

The story was tightly focused on the supernatural at one point (the mirror), but I decided to leave that kind of interpretation up to the reader’s imagination. Speaking of the reader (you), I chose to keep my character's ages entirely out of the story. What age did you picture the widow? Why?

I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
@lethargicwriter
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(artwork created in adobe photoshop)