The Last Writer by Adriane Leigh (books like harry potter .txt) 📕

garden hedges might contain more secrets than I was ready for. It was then I became committed to letting sleeping souls lie.

I’d then taken to finishing my book, and in all of my available free time searching through the piles and piles of medical files that were hidden throughout the house. Using the skeleton key, I’d discovered a secret trove of files in Yara’s office closet, including the most recent addition to the stack: Thax Bristol.

I found original copies of all of his applications to the writing program, and even a file with what looked like a private investigator’s notes about his family and history. I couldn't find what connection the Thornberry's may have had to Thax, but there were notes that explained PLt was used experimentally to rewire the neural pathways of the brain. The notes, taken by Yara or Yarrow, described the violent hallucinations Thax had witnessed almost as soon as he’d arrived at Usher.

For all intents and purposes, they’d given him a chemical lobotomy—both via needles and ingested orally with the medicated tea. I also discovered the main effective ingredient in the PLt was microscopic mold spores that developed on the lily bulbs that when ground to powder produced extreme-DMT-like responses in the visual cortex.

I’d agonized over calling the police, but there were so many secrets buried in the foundations of Usher it felt easier to let fate play out. There was no one to charge for the countless horrors as the real evil rested in her grave, unrecognized for her sins.

I distracted myself with searching late into the night hours, looking for my name on the medical files, curious what Yara Thornberry’s plan was for me after all of these years. Could it have been as innocent as one more bestselling book? Maybe. Maybe not.

Her history of stealing books and publishing under pen names was obvious, would my book have been good enough to keep me alive? Or worse, so good she removed me from the equation and published it under her own name?

I’d yet to find the last writer’s file. Maybe she was buried in the garden, but I had a hunch it was unlikely based on the sizes of the bones that’d been discovered and put back to rest so far.

The ferry chugged to a slow stop then, cars filing off one at a time.

“Can I give you a ride home, Ms. Usher?” The operator’s assistant interrupted my thoughts. His face was young, so pure and hopeful.

“No, thank you, Charlie, the walking keeps me sane. But please stop by Usher soon—I have a new cookie recipe that needs your taste-testing skills.”

He grinned widely, nodding once, and then turning back to his post at the dock.

Trailing my way down the dark lane that bordered the water’s edge, I left the lights of Shelter Island village behind for the darkness that enveloped Usher. No street lights lit this side of the small island, and only the sound of singing marsh frogs interrupted the silence.

When I slipped my skeleton key into the lock at Usher House’s gates, I was glad to hear Carnegie and Astor barreling to me in the darkness, their barking loud as they greeted me. It wasn't often I spent more than a few hours away from Usher, and in the event I did, Carnegie and Astor were always the first to greet me.

I patted them each on the head, then they followed me like loyal servants into the house. The first thing I did upon entering Usher, was head for the leftover chicken in the fridge and give them each a generous helping.

I watched them, with a smile on my face, as I realized how full circle my story had become.

A familiar shuffling reached my ears then.

“Found something you’ve been waiting for.”

“Oh?” I hummed, turning to find Yarrow filling the kitchen doorway.

He grunted, then shoved a medical file into my hands. “You may need to sit down to read this one.”

Fear tracked through me.

From the moment Yarrow had woken from his blackout on the floor of the cellar, his twin bleeding out at my feet, he’d become my loyal comrade.

I’d struggled to trust him at first, but from the first moment he’d revealed truths about Usher unwritten in the history books. First, he’d confessed to planting the schoolgirl dresses in my closet at the library, along with the horrendous smell that’d seemed to emanate at random times. Apparently, these were decoys, done at Yara’s instruction, to elicit a fear response and inspire my writing.

I’d shown him the journals and code book back then, and his face had fallen as he took them both in his hands. He held them for long moments, flipping through the tiny red journal in particular, before handing them back to me. Emotion seemed to well in his formerly-inhuman eyes before he’d nodded. “This explains so much about why she did this. Evil became her. This is the curse of Usher.”

I hadn’t asked him to elaborate, but I had a feeling he meant why young Zara had felt enough spite in her heart to perpetuate the hate and fear.

When I’d asked him if he’d planted the code book and journal too, he’d only shaken his head, saddened as he walked away. That very same night, I’d insisted he move into a room in the house—the mustiness of the cellar clung to his clothes and silvered hair for years, but not anymore.

And the more the truth dawned on me, the more protective I felt of young Yara and Nate’s legacy.

And the more I believed they’d both come to me to reveal their painful truths. Thax had come to the library an amateur sleuth, and I’d been the one called from the other side to unearth the madness.

I remembered the silver pigtails of young Yara, standing in the moonlight of my window at the library as she pointed across the street to who I now believed was the last writer. Her final breaths were forever embedded in my memory. I think