Hello readers and fellow travelers through Beauford Grove.
It’s been some time since my last update, but silence doesn’t mean stillness. Like the ancient olive trees that stand sentinel over the fictional town of Beauford Grove, I’ve been quietly nurturing this story, watching it branch and grow in unexpected directions.
Where I Am Now
I’m currently working on the second draft. The characters have taken on lives of their own, sometimes whispering their secrets to me in the quiet hours when the rest of the world sleeps. That’s the magic of writing—becoming both creator and witness.
The Southern Gothic elements have been fascinating to weave throughout the narrative—the decaying grandeur, the weight of history and family legacy, the land itself becoming almost a character. And as for the supernatural elements… well, there are things stirring beneath the olive groves that even I didn’t anticipate when I began this journey.
Listen to the Grove
I’ve recorded a small audio snippet to share the atmosphere I’m creating. This is an AI-generated voice, capturing a moment where the veil between the ordinary and extraordinary things within Beauford Grove:
Excerpt
The house has been standing waiting, maintaining its perfect facade while letting the grove gradually reclaim the inside walls and structures. As if sensing her presence, the olive branches move without wind, their leaves brushing against the pristine siding, like countless small hands welcoming her home.
“Home sweet home,” Adelle murmurs. “Ain’t nothin’ changed a bit,” and Eva feels the painful truth in those words. Everything is as it should be. And that’s what makes the home terrifying. Because she knows now that perfection has always been the grove’s favorite mask.
The foyer welcomes them with the soft glow of the crystal chandelier—each prism freshly polished. But Eva’s attention catches on how the olive branches have woven themselves through the light fixture, casting leaf shadows that dance across the Aubusson carpet. Miss Ernestine’s touch is everywhere: the mahogany banister gleams, brass fittings shine, and the air carries the familiar scent of beeswax and lemons. Yet beneath that domestic perfection lies a greener, earthier smell, like fresh soil after rain.
“Miss Ernestine still keeps everythin’ just the way the Beauford women intended,” Adelle says, running a finger along a side table that could serve as a mirror. “Though she gave up fightin’ with them branches. Says they come back meaner than kudzu if you cut ’em.”
Eva wanders toward the eastern parlor, pausing at the door, recalling those Sunday brunches now with vivid clarity: the eastern parlor transformed into a pagan chapel, where the olive wood table groaned beneath offerings that rivaled any church communion. Grand-mere presided like a high priestess, her voice rising and falling in Creole prayers—while steam curled from delicate bone China teacups and a fresh loaf of bread released yeasty perfume. There were always olives—black ones glistening like beads of blood, green ones bright as new leaves—arranged in silver bowls passed down through generations.
The feast seemed endless: cornbread baked with herbs from the sacred gardens, beignets dusted with sugar that sparkled in the filtered sunlight, quiches rich with cream and eggs, and tea cakes glazed with honey purchased from a nearby farmer. Each dish was a celebration and sacrifice, their abundance a testament to the pact’s power.
While distant church bells tolled, Grand-mere would lift her teacup, giving thanks not to the Christian Gods but to much older entities. “Nou remèsye tè a ak san nou”—we thank the earth and our blood. The olive branches would stir then, leaves shivering in acknowledgment, and young Eva would see them dance, wondering if they might reach for a taste of tea cakes, too.
Standing in the eastern parlor, surrounded by encroaching branches, Eva notices the silver serving dishes still neat and proper on the sideboard, patiently waiting. The branches wrap around them without touching, as if honoring these ritual tools. She picks up a teacup and sees faint stains from countless Sunday services. This makes her wonder: did anyone in the town ever question why the Beauford women hosted such elaborate brunches instead of attending mass? Or did they accept it as another family peculiarity that contributed to their prosperity?
“I’ll let you get reacquainted with la maison,” Adelle says. “I’ll be out back if you need me, chérie. Miss Ernestine’s somewheres ‘bout. She’ll turn up soon enough.” Adelle turns to leave, then pivots back with a warm smile. “Ma petite Evangeline, you don’t know how my heart sings to have you home,” and strolls toward the front door without waiting for a response.
Eva notices how, like Rafe, Adelle slips between French Creole and English as naturally as breathing—that peculiar melody unique to Beauford Grove. Their words rise and fall like the silver-green leaves of the olive trees, a language crafted from centuries of isolation and necessity. French plantation terms blend with Southern drawls and the rhythms of Haiti, peppered with words that exist nowhere else—names for tools used in the harvest, for the different ways light filters through the ancient groves, for the spirits said to dwell in the oldest trees.
This tongue belongs only to those who’ve lived in Beauford Manor’s shadow for generations, bled, birthed, and died beneath its twisted olive branches. An enclave dialect preserved like the family’s precious oil, stored in dark bottles and growing richer with time. Eva had forgotten how it felt to hear it—like music half-remembered from childhood, familiar yet strange, comforting yet unsettling in how quickly it still calls to her blood.
Next
In the coming weeks, I’ll be delving deeper into the family’s grimoire, an ancient book my main character, Evangeline’s ancestor brought from their native country, Haiti, to America, filled with magical things I hope I can capture well. The second draft is taking shape, though as any writer knows, the real magic often happens in several revisions.
I’ll be sharing more excerpts in the next few months.
