Glass Unicorn

I wandered aimlessly around the museum, trying to settle my racing heart. I had a mission, a purpose for this little visit- to find the White Family Bible and uncover any secrets or revelations I could about our family’s generational curse and the raven mocker. However, a nostalgic part of my brain also just wanted to walk around the East Tennessee History Center and breathe in the history. It was strangely grounding and cathartic to surround myself with stories from the past. I entered the exhibit entitled Voices of the Past. My steps quivered in anticipation. I had visited this catalog of my family’s history multiple times, but this venture was different. I felt an intense pull, like a string on a fishing hook, enticing me into this place. Something in this museum wanted me to find it.

It didn’t take me long to figure out what it was. My body moved of its own accord- led by something ancient and powerful. I stopped at a small glass unicorn. The object itself was nothing special- no ornate details to draw people in, or interesting facts to entice curious onlookers. The glass unicorn was incredibly simple in its composition. However, I could discern an overwhelming magic emanating from the object- like the sudden whip of a lightning crack during a thunderstorm. Below the glass case holding the object, I read an inscription: “On loan from the University of Sewanee, the glass unicorn prop from the play “The Glass Menagerie.” Suddenly, the intense pull and strange connection to the item made perfect sense. I smiled softly and ran my hand wistfully along the glass barrier. Oh, Laura, I thought whimsically. Two souls cut from the same cloth.

My fingertips tingled as I pressed them against the cool glass. The surrounding museum faded, replaced by a soft, ethereal glow. The floor beneath my feet dissolved, and I felt myself falling, not in fear, but in a gentle surrender. When I landed, the air was thick with the scent of magnolias and old paper. I stood in a dimly lit study, bookshelves overflowing with volumes, and a Victrola playing a mournful jazz tune in the corner. Seated at a large, ornate desk, pen in hand, was a man with intense, kind eyes and a melancholic smile. His suit was rumpled, and a cigarette dangled from his lips. He looked up, his gaze meeting mine with an uncanny familiarity. “Welcome, cousin,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Tom?” I whispered, a gasp catching in my throat. Am I tripping? I thought wildly, grasping for my temples. He chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across the pavement. “Indeed. Though in this realm, we can be simply ourselves, stripped of the expectations of the waking world.” He gestured to a worn velvet armchair opposite him. “Please, make yourself comfortable. There’s much to discuss.” I sank into the chair, the velvet surprisingly soft beneath my fingers. “I… I came here seeking answers. About the curse, the raven mocker…” He nodded, his eyes clouded with a familiar sadness. “Ah, yes. The shadow that stretches across our lineage. A heavy burden, isn’t it? One that has touched us all, in one way or another.” He paused, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Rose, my dear sister… she was particularly susceptible to its whispers.” His voice softened, tinged with a deep sorrow. “The fragility of her mind, amplified by the darkness of our family’s past. It was a tragic symphony, playing out for all to see.”

“It’s why I write,” I confessed, the words spilling out unbidden. “To try and make sense of it all. To give voice to the unspoken, to understand the patterns.” Tennessee Williams’s eyes lit up with a spark of recognition. “Precisely. That’s the writer’s burden, and our salvation. We, the sensitive ones, who feel the tremors of the soul more acutely. We must translate the pain, the beauty, the madness into something tangible. Something that can be understood, even if only by ourselves.” He leaned forward, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “Do you find solace in it, cousin? Does the act of creation offer a momentary reprieve from the haunting?”

“Yes,” I breathed, feeling a profound connection with this man I had only known through his plays and the hushed family whispers. “It’s like… building a bridge across a chasm. Hoping to reach the other side.”

“A perilous journey, but a necessary one,” he agreed, a wistful smile playing on his lips. “The raven mocker, you see, feeds on the fear of stagnation, the terror of silence. It thrives on the unspoken anxieties, the inherited traumas that we refuse to acknowledge.” He gestured around the dimly lit room. “Here, in the realm of dreams, we can confront these specters. We can give them names, and in doing so, perhaps, diminish their power.”

“So, the writing… it’s a way to fight back?”

He nodded slowly. “A way to illuminate the darkness. To cast a light on the shadows that have plagued our family for generations. But remember, cousin, the battle is not easily won. The curse, like a tenacious vine, has deep roots.” He reached across the desk, his hand resting on my arm, his touch surprisingly solid. “But you, with your sensitivity, your passion for stories… you possess a powerful weapon. Use it wisely. Give voice to the silent screams, paint pictures of the unseen horrors, and in doing so, you might just find a way to break the chain.” The study began to shimmer, the scent of magnolias fading. The mournful jazz tune grew distant. I felt the gentle pull of return, the dream reality dissolving around me. “One last thing, cousin,” Tom’s voice echoed, as if from a great distance. “The White Family Bible… it holds more than just dates. It holds the echoes of their fears, their hopes, their secrets. Look for the silences within its pages. That’s where the truth often lies.”

And then, with a soft jolt, I was back in the East Tennessee History Center, my fingertips still pressed against the cool glass of the unicorn’s case. The hum of the museum was once again around me, but something had fundamentally shifted within. The mission to find the White Family Bible now felt more urgent, more profound. The conversation with Tennessee Williams had not only provided answers but had ignited a new sense of purpose, a torch to illuminate the path forward. I quietly made her way to the elevator and the third floor, where the McClung Collection was. Shifting through mold and grim-stained catalogues, I finally found what I was looking for- the White Family Bible.

I sat cross-legged on the floor and scanned the bible for handwritten notes. My fingers paused at the mention of Melinda White Williams. The passage read:

Melinda White, born 15 Feb 1789. Wife of Senator John Williams. Died on 2 Mar 1838 in Knox, Tennessee. Prone to fits of paranoia and insanity. Found dead by servants, hanging from an upstairs patio railing.

I reread the text several times, just to make sure I wasn’t imagining things. Prone to fits of paranoia and insanity. Painful flashes of my distant relative, Rose, clouded my mind, and I clenched my heart nostalgically. Turning to the next page, hoping to find more evidence, I flinched nervously when a stray piece of parchment fell onto the floor. I picked it up and immediately gasped in horror. It was as if my memories were plucked out of her brain and drawn on paper. The skeletal fingers, the hollow cheekbones and glassy eyes, the wings… It was a replica of the raven mocker. At the bottom of the picture, someone had engraved, Drawn by Melinda Williams, 1836. Suddenly feeling nauseous, I read on, only stopping again when reaching a section on Tennessee Williams’ father, Cornelius. Looking similar to the structure of the last entry, it read:

Cornelius Coffin (C.C) Williams, born 21 Aug 1879. Husband of Edwina Dakin Williams. Died on 27 Mar 1957 in Knoxville, Tennessee. Died of alcohol poisoning and drug abuse. C.C, like his ancestors, fell quickly into devastation and paranoia, often leading to the abuse of his wife and young children.

Knowing what I did now, I almost felt sorry for the shoe salesperson. Almost. Scrolling through a few more pages, I felt a presence sneak up behind me. A pair of warm arms wrapped around my waist and I felt a light kiss on her collarbone. “Studying?” Hazel asked amusedly. “Family research. Seeing if anyone else had seen “the blue devils,” as my cousin Tom called it. Poor man didn’t realize an actual bloodthirsty monster was torturing him.” I mused sadly, closing the bible and putting it back where it belonged. I turned to face Hazel and kissed her passionately on the lips. Hazel giggled mischievously and smacked me playfully on the ass. “Let’s get outta here.” she sang wickedly, grabbing my hand and leading me into the elevator.