It was 1947. Giacomina had gotten little sleep for months. The once warm and light oak skin grew dull and lifeless. Her normally dark, luscious curls became thinner, and her body did the same. She no longer painted, no longer read, and rarely even spoke. At just twenty, she seemed to care for nothing at all.
Her brother had returned from the war severely wounded, in body and mind. He had terrible fits in the night and could no longer do much for himself in the day, and the remedies that seemed to help became expensive very quickly. Giacomina's father worked almost constantly, as she and her mother at home cared for her brother.
It was simply too much.
Her parents decided it best for her to stay with her cousin's widow Eloisa for a while, and Giacomina made no attempt to protest as they made the arrangements. Perhaps it was just what she needed. After all, she'd always cared for Eloisa.
She told her family she loved them, and made the journey from her home in Florence to the Sicilian countryside.
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"Ah, Giacomina! Come in, come in!"
Eloisa greeted her in Sicilian, but quickly switched to the common Italian. At least Pietro wasn't there to scold Giacomina for forgetting her roots.
No, that was a terrible thing to think! And in his own home, too.
Eloisa gave her kisses and a strong embrace, then grabbed the twenty-year-old's bags in a single hand--the very same bags Giacomina had lugged one at a time from the car to the front of the door--and ran up the stairs, turning again to Giacomina at the top.
"You're coming, aren't you? Shoes are in the same place."
The old house of wood and stone seemed somehow bigger on the inside, even more than Giacomina remembered. Aside from the hint of dust and spiders here and there, it was immaculate. Everything was neater, and much quieter, without him.
It only made sense, yet she couldn't help but remember the stories he used to tell her about the place. Things that crept about in the night, tunnels hidden beneath the house, beasts that bite.
But those were just stories.
Giacomina took a breath and removed her shoes, placing them not far from the door in that same little stone shelf they were always kept, and started for the stairs.
Apparently, Eloisa took this as a sign to continue, and was out of sight until Giacomina reached the top and discovered her at the end of a hall.
Eloisa had the same warm, honey-oak skin she always had, and shining, well-defined black curls that reached just below the chin. Even her simple, berry dress seemed crafted by the hands of God when upon that hourglass figure.
Giacomina must've truly become lifeless. Even as she couldn't see herself, the starkness of the contrast crept into her very soul.
"Uh, thank you. For letting me stay."
Eloisa waved her off. "You're family."
Her cousin's widow reached Giacomina's hand, and gently tugged her to the room in which she'd be staying. Plenty was stated when they got there--where different rooms in the house were and a host of other details Giacomina already knew. But then, there was Reine.
A woman of deep, russet skin and fluffy, black hair, curls tight and immense, tied back. She wore a light robe.
Reine happened to walk near and Eloisa was quick to introduce her.
Apparently, she was a friend who'd been staying there for a while, though Giacomina caught herself glaring at Eloisa's unusual hand movements as she spoke.
Then Eloisa's brows went up.
"Oh! She can't hear. This is how she speaks." Eloisa continued to gesture.
Reine made her own movements, and Eloisa spoke.
"She says it's very nice to meet you."
"Well, it's nice to meet her--it's nice to meet you too."
Eloisa translated, or at least, Giacomina assumed she was translating, and Reine ended with a polite smile and a vaguely awkward departure.
Giacomina turned to her host.
"...I'll admit, I'm a bit surprised that your friend is, uh--"
"French, I know. But you know me. Reine and I are more alike than we are different."
Eloisa smiled and continued.
"Let's get you some food, and then you'll join me in painting, won't you? Animals, I assume?"
She did love painting animals. It was a passion she and her cousin had had in common.
"Uh, yes. Yes, of course."
That was how it began. She'd eat with the women, she'd paint, she'd read aloud to Eloisa; things seemed to improve, though the nights were different in that house. Perhaps it was because she could finally sleep, which was certainly a relief. Perhaps that was even why she had such strange dreams. Perhaps it was those silly stories her cousin used to tell her.
Perhaps it was nothing. Surely, it was nothing.
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It was a crisp and raining night, a little under a month into her stay. Giacomina had been saying the first Hail Mary before bed, her hair braided, pale nightgown on, and cross around her neck, same as usual.
Shattering glass shot through the house.
Then a scream.
The young woman jumped up, palms on her mouth. With shaky breaths through the nose, she slowly lowered her hands.
