Dear Readers,

Well, this is the end of Heartless. I’d love your feedback. I write in different genres, and so I’m not always going to provide a steady dose of one kind of story. While A Weekly Dose of Fiction will have a variety, there is one thing that will be constant—whatever appears here will be something I write. I sometimes download some images from Pixabay, so thank you, Pixabay.

Today is also The Insecure Writers’ Support Group First Wednesday post, so shall we move on?

Heartless, Part 7 (the end)

The Kent House

Giselle was still unconscious when Mrs. Kent returned and carefully laid out her knife. Peeling back the bodice of Giselle’s dress and slicing open her corset, she laid thick towels along her sides and set a bucket at the head of the table to hold the organs.

Removing a clean apron from the chest, she covered her own dress and smoothed back her hair, shivering with anticipation. Soon she’d see a heart in its pulsing last seconds. Symbolic, yes. But soothing to her own heart that still ached two years after his betrayal. She closed her eyes, remembering her husband’s parting words. I can’t love you when another has stolen my heart.

The image of the young girl waiting for him in his carriage remained seared in her mind. Mrs. Kent pressed her hand to her chest. The miserable memory of that day. Her heart battering to escape the confines of her bosom. So much pain. So much humiliation. His handsome face turned away from her entreaties.

“Beast,” she murmured.

She grasped the knife. Opening the skin was not her favorite part of the preparation, but it was necessary. All she needed was the exterior to submerge in the wax. A beautiful sculpture.

Placing the knife just below the sternum, she made a small cut. She wanted to be sure Giselle was still in a deep sleep. The girl moaned, but then became quiet.

Mrs. Kent took a steadying breath and positioned the knife at the cut.

The loud pounding at her front door stopped her hand.

“Not now,” she hissed and slammed the knife onto the table.

The pounding persisted. It must be the police, and she couldn’t risk making them suspicious. She tore off her apron and, locking the door, prepared to give them her story. As she reached the first floor, the strong scent of smoke caught in her throat.

When she opened the door, two men pushed their way inside.

The taller of the two spoke urgently. “Mrs. Elizabeth Kent?”

“Yes.” Her voice matched his in intensity.

“I’m Detective Scofield. There’s a fire. You must leave here at once.” He squinted, peering into the dim and smoky room. “Is Miss Glenford with you?”

“No.” Then, alarmed, she said, “Fire? Where?”

The shorter man coughed and covered his nose with a handkerchief. “Just about everywhere, from the looks of it.”

“Is anyone else in the house?” Detective Scofield scanned the room, noting the tea and untouched biscuits.

She looked up at the second floor. “Oh no!” She ran up the steps. They’d be destroyed. All her work. Her girls gone in flames. That couldn’t happen.

“Mrs. Kent!” Detective Scofield vaulted after her. “Stop! We must leave at once.”

Without a backward glance, she shoved open the door to the green bedroom. Alexandra. She’d save her. But what of the others? She held her arm across her face, choking on each breath.

“Oh my God.” The deep voice of Detective Scofield came from behind her.

Mrs. Kent held the wax figure in her arms. “I must save her. Please help me.”

Detective Scofield bolted from the room and shouted down to where his sergeant paced, coughing. “Hawkins! Search this place. Now.” He turned on Mrs. Kent, who stood gripping the figure. “Where is Giselle Glenford?”

Her lips quivered, but she didn’t answer.

“Tell me at once or I’ll throw that,” he pointed to the wax figure, “into the fire this moment.”

Mrs. Kent bit back tears. “The workroom. Basement.” she said in barely a whisper.

The detective ran from the room and bounded down the stairs. Acrid smoke rose to the ceiling, and an orange glow filtered through the shuttered windows. Then the roar of consuming flames became unmistakable. The firestorm was on them.

He gasped for air, but holding his cloak to his face, he found the stairs down. He pushed on the door. It didn’t open. He turned at the sound of footsteps. “Hawkins. Thank God. Give me a shoulder here.”

Together they hurled themselves at the door. It didn’t give way. Again, they rammed it. This time, the jamb cracked a bit. On the third try, it splintered, and they stumbled into the basement room, the dark stench billowing from inside.

Detective Scofield regained his balance and hurried to place his fingers on Giselle’s throat.

“Is she alive?” Hawkins gasped.

“Yes. Help me free her.”

Fumbling with the knots, they untied Giselle’s wrists and ankles, releasing her from the table. Detective Scott wrapped her in his cloak and lifted her from the table.

“Sir, you must see this.” Hawkins had opened the door of the large ice storage cabinet.

On the floor lay the body of a young girl. Above her on a shelf were four human hearts, frozen.

Detective Scofield blanched, then, coughing to clear the smoke from his lungs, said, “There’s nothing we can do for her. Come.”

By the time they reached the first floor, the house was in flames. Hawkins yanked open the front door at the same moment the ceiling collapsed onto the floor behind them. In the rubble lay Mrs. Kent. In her arms, she held the melting body of a young girl dressed in a green silk gown.

The End

So that’s a wrap on this story. Next Wednesday I’ll have something new—really new, since I’m still editing it. And now for #IWSG’s First Wednesday.

Purpose: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!

Posting: The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer - aim for a dozen new people each time - and return comments. This group is all about connecting! Be sure to link to this page and display the badge in your post. And please be sure your avatar links back to your blog! Otherwise, when you leave a comment, people can't find you to comment back.

JOIN US AND TOGETHER…Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!

Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG and hashtag is #IWSG.

The awesome co-hosts for the June 4 posting of the IWSG are PJ Colando, Pat Garcia, Kim Lajevardi, Melisa Maygrove, and Jean Davis!

Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.

Remember, the question is optional!

June 4 question - What were some books that impacted you as a child or young adult?

I’m skipping this month’s question since I’ve answered this one several times. However, I’m adding it to my Notes, so others on Substack can participate if they want to.

5.0 out of 5 stars Wonderful

This is a story that‘s too often in the headlines, and I was worried that it would be hard to read. But it wasn't. I loved the characters and the way the story unfolded. It was heart-wrenching and heart-warming all at the same time. No wonder it is an editor's pick.