The Haunted Lingerie: One Week Check-In
Wow, has it been busy around here!
As you may already know, I released my debut novel, The Haunted Lingerie on May 30th. Since then, it's seen an incredible amount of positive reviews on Amazon and Goodreads, all of which make the experience worth it.
The Magic Mirror, its free prequel, missed the launch date, and right now it's sitting roughly 2/3 complete in front of me. And that's just the first draft. I'll have to edit it before I can think about publishing. I like to ensure everything is up to snuff before letting other people see it.
Which is ironic, considering how my initial release went.
But that's a story for another time (and a longer post). Right now I'd like to thank all my readers for growing as attached to Sanctum Harbor as I have and reward your patience with an unedited glimpse of what's in store in the pages of The Magic Mirror.

Part OneThe Three Cards
“One need not a chamber to be haunted
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.”
—Emily Dickinson
Jack Snow stared at the photo album in his hands, wondering why every picture looked so damned strange.
It was an eclectic mix of subjects to begin with. No two were the same, including the family portraits. Only the composition remained consistent: they were all daguerreotypes. It must have been a photographer’s portfolio.
He thumbed through the collection of nineteenth-century photos, brow furrowed as his gaze snagged on every peculiarity. Why were some of their faces blurry while others were perfectly in focus? Why did so many of them look like they were sleeping? And what in God’s name was wrong with that child’s eyes?
With each turn of a page, a sense of unease coiled tighter and tighter in his stomach. By the time he got to the last picture in the series, it had morphed into a feeling of cold dread.
The photo was of a young boy, maybe five or six years old. He was fully limp in a chair, his little fingers only tenuously clutching a polished wooden stick against his palm. A large, thin hoop rested against his knee. It looked like one of the simple toys children had played with many years ago.
But why was the boy so still?
Jack’s eyes dropped to the half-degraded type below.
Why should our tears in sorrow flow
When God recalls His own?
A chill seized him. He wasn’t sure why, but that enigmatic phrase nibbled at his nape, bringing his hairs to stand on end.
“Do you like it?” a honeyed, crackling voice called from behind him.
Jack turned to face it. It was coming from Mrs. Clathermont, the owner of the small antique shop on Blackwood Street.
He closed the album. “I dunno,” he answered at length. “I’m not sure what it is.”
Mrs. Clathermont’s Curious Collectibles had been one of Sanctum Harbor’s most recognizable staples since as far back as Jack could remember—or at least, it was to its residents. The influx of tourists the town saw every fall were often too busy staring at the changing leaves to notice it, and the few who did always seemed to be the sort who were looking for key chains and personalized mugs rather than any of the ancient baubles Mrs. Clathermont had for sale.
Jack had rarely stepped foot in it himself. But today, it was the first place he’d stopped.
He was on his way back from the police academy up north in Sanctuary. It had been an intense six months away from home, and while he was sure his mother was dying to see him, he wanted to pick her up a little gift first—something thoughtful, something special. Something that wasn’t this creepy old photo album.
Mrs. Clathermont smiled at him. She was a wizened woman with a mane of thick, gray hair she kept pinned to her scalp in either a bun or chignon. Her body seemed frail—she walked only by way of an old mahogany cane and the backs of her hands were mottled with liver spots—but her eyes were so vivid and bright they almost glowed.
Jack stared into those cerulean portals until the old woman’s gaze fell to the velvet-covered album in his hands. The corners of her eyes crinkled.
“That,” she said, unlatching a small wooden box with brass hinges, “is a record of some of the first photographs ever taken.”
“The first?” Jack echoed, glancing back down at the plush maroon cover. “Is that why some of the people look so weird?”
Mrs. Clathermont chuckled crisply, less like the tittering of birds and more like dead leaves rustling underfoot.
“No,” she said. “I’m afraid that’s not the case at all. You see, daguerreotypes required absolute stillness for portraits to develop properly, and as photography was in its infancy at the time—and therefore quite costly—it was reserved for only the most momentous of occasions.”
She reached slowly into the box before her. When she withdrew, she cradled a deck of cards in her hand.
“Those people don’t look strange because of the camera,” she continued. Another smile quirked at the edges of her lips. “They look that way because they’re dead.”
Jack’s mouth was suddenly dry. He grasped the album firmly to quell his instinct to drop it to the floor. “Dead?”
Mrs. Clathermont bobbed her head in much the same way a pigeon might. “Oh, yes. Post-mortem photography was all the rage in the Victorian era. Corpses remained quite inert, as you can imagine, and easily posed. What photographer could ask for a better subject?”
“But…” He risked another disbelieving glance at the book. “There’re a bunch of children in here…”
“Childhood mortality rates were steep in those days,” Mrs. Clathermont explained, laying each of the gilt-trimmed cards face-down on her front counter. “And since photography was only just blossoming, it was a rare opportunity for grieving parents to keep the memory of their lost child alive.
“Of course, the Victorians were also obsessed with death,” she added once several of the cards were arranged before her. “They were a truly fascinating society. Not since the days of ancient Egypt were a people so consumed by the inevitability of their passing.” She shifted her eyes to the album again. “Poe is in there. Would you like me to show you?”
“That’s okay,” Jack said quickly, returning the book to its place on one of Mrs. Clathermont’s packed and swollen shelves. “I’m actually lookin’ for somethin’ for my mom.”
Mrs. Clathermont looked up from her cards. “Your mother?” She paused, cocking her head as she looked him over. She drummed her fingers softly on the counter. “How old are you now, dear?”
He puffed his chest. “Nineteen, ma’am. And a half.”
“And one half,” Mrs. Clathermont murmured, nodding pensively. Then she swept the cards back into their deck.
“Your mother was in here a few weeks ago. She bought a lovely silver hand mirror—one of my favorite items. Perhaps you can find her something to go with it.”
“Like what?” he asked, looking around the store. It was stuffed to the brim with everything from jewelry and ceramic figurines to sprawling Baroque mirrors and Edwardian settees with rich damask upholstery. It was all very beautiful, but overwhelming.
“What about a brush?” Mrs. Clathermont suggested. “Your mother has exquisite hair.”
Jack frowned. A brush hardly seemed sufficient. He wanted something more personal.
He cast his eyes down to the reassembled deck of cards. “What are those?”
Mrs. Clathermont lifted them, brushing her fingers lovingly along their golden trim. “These are tarot cards. Are you familiar with their use?”
Jack shook his head. The old woman continued.
“They’re used in cartomancy, a practice which dates back to the fourteenth century. Some believe that each deck holds a special power to divine questions about the past, present, and future—if one knows how to interpret the answers.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Like fortune-telling?”
She nodded. “Yes. Exactly like that. This particular deck is one that has been in my care for…” She trailed off, her eyes searching the ornate designs on the backs of the cards. “…well, it seems like an eternity.”
Then she looked up at Jack. “Would you like me to do a reading for you?”
“I’m not sure I have the time,” he said, glancing at one of the many clocks strewn throughout Mrs. Clathermont’s shop. It was almost noon. His mother would have lunch ready soon.
“It’ll only take a moment,” the old woman said, expertly shuffling the deck between her surprisingly nimble fingers. “Three cards is all it takes.”
Jack shifted, running a hand through his chestnut hair. “I don’t really believe in that stuff.”
Mrs. Clathermont smirked slyly. “Then what harm can it do?”
His eyes fell again to the cards ruffling and shifting within her palms. Had they been regular playing cards, he would have bought them for his mother. She loved card games and was especially good at solitaire, and while she often played it on her computer, he knew how much she loved the tactile experience of laying a deck of cards out in front of her.
Mrs. Clathermont seemed to enjoy it too. There was a twinkle in her eyes that intensified with every pass of the deck along her fingertips.
Three cards. He regarded the time again. That shouldn’t take much time at all, and since he was probably going to leave her shop without buying anything, it would be polite to at least humor her.
Well, if it’ll make her happy…
“All right,” Jack said as he approached the opposite side of the counter. “What do I do?”
“Not much,” Mrs. Clathermont replied. With a sweep of her hand, she fanned the deck out across the wooden countertop. “All you have to do is pick three cards—any that you like. I’ll do the rest.”
He hesitated, his eyes scanning each filigreed design. They were identical, but he was convinced there had to be some kind of trick.
But what did it matter? It wasn’t like fortune-telling was real.
He pointed to one of the cards. “This one…”
Mrs. Clathermont shook her head. “No, Jack. You have to touch them.”
Jack frowned. He opened his mouth to ask why, then decided against it. It was probably just some weird occult thing, and he didn’t have time for another of Mrs. Clathermont’s rambling explanations.
He obediently touched a finger to the card, pulling it part way from the deck. Then he did the same to two others and nodded to Mrs. Clathermont.
“Very well,” she said, condensing the remainder and setting them aside. “Let’s see what choices you’ve made.”
He watched as she overturned the first card he’d picked. On its face were a man and a woman standing on opposite sides of a small river. They were both naked, hands clasped above the water as they traversed the shore beneath the boughs of what appeared to be peach trees. A cherub presided over them, bow and arrow at the ready.
His eyes trailed down to the words below the picture. The Lovers.
“This card represents love and communication,” Mrs. Clathermont said, studying the figures with a critical eye. “Because this is the first card you drew, it refers to some event in your past—a prior encounter that weighs heavily upon your mind. You are in the midst of making a decision about this matter, and this card implores you to look to your heart to discern your true desires.”
Jack’s cheeks burned as he stared at the naked couple. Only one name came to mind as he considered Mrs. Clathermont’s words: Misty Ryder.
They’d been best friends for what sometimes seemed like forever, ever since he and his family had moved to Massachusetts from Blackstone, Virginia. Jack was used to small towns, but Sanctum Harbor was nothing like the rural Nottoway County.
For one thing, Blackstone only had about half of Sanctum Harbor’s population. For the first few months, Jack had been in awe of how many people there were, especially during the tourism season. He’d never been past the county line before, and up to that point, he’d imagined every town was like Blackstone. He’d hardly known what to do with himself when his family eventually made a trip to Boston.
For another thing, the people in Sanctum Harbor were different. Few of them possessed the long, slow drawl that oozed from his mouth in comparison to the clipped, staccato tones they always spoke in. The other kids in his class had made fun of him for it at first—all except Misty Ryder, who had approached it with something like fascination.
She’d even adopted an accent of her very own—similar to his, although a little more effervescent—for an entire year just to keep the bullies at bay. It would prove just the first in a long line of sacrifices on her part to prove how much she really cared for him.
It hadn’t gone unnoticed.
He recalled the last night they’d spent together before he left for the police academy in Sanctuary. It had happened right after her father’s funeral. He’d picked her up early and driven her to the harbor with nothing but a thick blanket and a six-pack of beers he shouldn’t have had. He remembered his own father’s funeral and how he’d wished someone would have done the same for him. It was the first time he’d been able to make a sacrifice for her.
She’d looked radiant in the twilight, the stars reflected perfectly in her silvery eyes as she cried and laughed and then cried some more. She’d made him a little paper fortune-teller’s note with a scrap from his car and forced him to play with it until a proper prediction was made.
I’ll never leave you, the fortune had read.
Jack’s cheeks burned brighter. Maybe he did believe in that stuff. Or at least, he wanted to.
He watched as Mrs. Clathermont turned over the second card. She raised her thin, ashen eyebrows.
“The card that represents your present is the Hanged Man,” she intoned, gesturing to the figure suspended upside-down from a tree. His foot was caught in a snare of some kind and his hands were behind his back, but eerily, his expression showed no trace of concern. “It’s a card of sacrifice.”
Jack met her gaze. “Sacrifice?”
Mrs. Clathermont nodded. “You must let go of that which you love in order to improve your situation. To achieve your goals, you must give up something of great importance to you.”
Jack stared at the card. He couldn’t imagine anything he’d sought more in his life than his father’s pride. It was part of the reason he’d gone to the police academy. Hank Snow had been one hell of a cop. He shouldn’t have died the way he did. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.
He could have learned so much from his father if he’d just stuck around a little longer. But he was gone, and Jack had to make up for that somehow—not just to himself or his mom, but to the world. Following in his footsteps seemed like a good place to start.
But what did the card mean? What would he have to give up in pursuit of those dreams?
“Shall I show you the third card?” Mrs. Clathermont asked, her laudanum-laden voice stealing him from his reverie.
Jack stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and nodded mutely. For something he didn’t take much stock in, this whole process was making him uneasy.
The old shopkeeper gingerly flipped the very last card, revealing a single word that made knots of Jack’s guts.
Death.
He grimaced, resisting the urge to step back away from the counter and the grim skeleton grinning up at him from it. But Mrs. Clathermont only smiled.
“Ah,” she said.
“What’s that s’pposed to mean?” Jack said, his gaze flitting between the card and Mrs. Clathermont. “Am I gonna die?”
Mrs. Clathermont’s face split into a too-wide grin. “Aren’t we all?”
Then she slid the card nearer to him.
“The Death card does not always represent death,” she said. “In fact, it usually signifies a great change in your life—the opportunity to begin anew. In the context of your previous cards, it would seem that if you follow the path lain out before you, it will change your life. For good or ill, that is up to you.”
Jack ran his tongue over his teeth behind his lips. He stared at the scythe-wielding skeleton sweeping crowns, palettes, medals, books, and banners into a pile at its feet. Even without an explanation, the message was clear: whether princes or paupers, all men die.
A chill slithered up his spine. He clenched his hands inside his jacket.
“Well, uh… thanks, ma’am. For the reading.”
“Oh, thank you, Jack,” Mrs. Clathermont replied, returning his cards to the deck and placing them lovingly in their box lined with crimson felt. “For humoring me.” She closed the lid with only the softest of squeaks from its brass hinges.
“Now, were you still considering the brush?” A look crossed her face suddenly—of what, Jack couldn’t entirely tell—and she gestured toward the back of her shop. “Or perhaps something from my private stock would be more appropriate?”
“Private stock?” Jack asked, frowning as he followed the motion of her withered hand. “You mean there’s more?”
“Oh, yes!” Mrs. Clathermont said, her eyes shimmering so brightly they were nearly hypnotic. “I can show you. They’re just over here in my back room…”
He peered beyond her, past the shadows of the gas lamps burning on the wall and into to corner of her shop. His brows knitted together as he squinted into the dark.
Finally, he fixed his gaze back on her. “What back room?”
The old woman paused. Her face betrayed nothing as she turned over her shoulder, staring in the direction Jack’s eyes had only just left. She remained quiet for a moment, studying the empty shadows until she burst into shrill, hysterical laughter.
“Oh!” she cried, splaying her hand across her chest. “I must be getting old! Here, I’ll get you the brush…”
Jack waited at the counter, listening to the rhythmic clicking of Mrs. Clathermont’s cane against the hardwood floor as she hobbled into one of the many aisles. It was getting late, and he hadn’t been able to find any other gifts for his mother. The brush would have to do.
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the little wooden box on the counter. The Lovers. The Hanged Man. Death. What the cards revealed hadn’t exactly been untrue. But what did it all mean?
Don’t be stupid, he urged himself. It wasn’t the cards. It was her. She’s the one who decided what they meant. You probably gave somethin’ away…
Jack nodded to himself, his anxiety dampened slightly by the logical reassurance.
“Here you are, dear,” Mrs. Clathermont said from behind him. Jack jumped. How hadn’t he heard her approach? “What do you think?”
He turned and looked down at the objects in her hands.
One was an immaculately polished silver hairbrush with a large, ovular head. Upon its back, flowers bloomed around a maiden holding a lyre. Something about her seemed melancholy, but Jack couldn’t quite place it.
The other object in Mrs. Clathermont’s hands was a comb with ivory teeth. Its designs matched those of the hairbrush, although they were far less ornate.
“They don’t match her new mirror precisely,” she said, “but they are beautiful nonetheless.”
“I’ll take them,” Jack said. She was right. Both the brush and the comb were astonishingly well-kept, and his mother’s recent purchase made them seem more personal than he’d originally imagined.
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Clathermont said, smiling as she tucked the items beneath her arm to lean heavily on her cane once more. “I’ll ring them up for you. Shall I gift wrap them as well?”
“That’d be kind of you, ma’am,” Jack replied, a faint smile touching his lips as he fished his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. Maybe his trip to Mrs. Clathermont’s hadn’t been a waste, after all.
He watched her deceptively dexterous fingers carefully mold a few sheets of golden damask tissue paper around the items. She was careful to engulf them entirely, ensuring they would not clatter together on his way home.
“Do you know how to treat silver?” she asked him.
Jack shook his head. “No, ma’am. But I reckon my mom does.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Mrs. Clathermont agreed as she arranged both pieces inside a shimmering golden gift bag. She slid it to him across the counter.
“There you are. Give your mother my regards, won’t you?”
“I will,” Jack said, slipping his hand into the straps of the bag. “And thanks—y’know, for helpin’ me decide.”
Mrs. Clathermont’s face stretched so wide he thought it might shatter.
“You’re welcome,” she told him. “I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.”
Jack looked at her for a moment. The striking color of her eyes seemed brighter, more luminous than before. Though her skin had been wrinkled before, it now looked taut, pulled flat against her skull as she grinned from ear to ear, revealing a maw of magnificent teeth.
He almost thought there were too many. But perhaps that was just the light.
He offered Mrs. Clathermont a smile and a nod in return. It was, after all, the polite thing to do.