by Clara Cody
"An improvement could hardly have been avoided." Her smile faltered. "What did he say?"
He looked to the ground. "He wants to speak to you."
Her stomach turned, guilt swimming around like an eel. "I can't now," she said, dragging the heavy book back towards her.
"You just said you—"
"And now I'm saying I'm busy."
"He just wants—"
"I know exactly what he wants, Charles. And neither you nor I are in a place to give it to him. What's the point?" She waved him away and pulled her book closer. "If he is lucid like you said, you should be upstairs. Keep him company."
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him as he stood, watching her. She could imagine what he must be thinking. Not that it made any difference.
"Do you remember when we were kids and—?"
"Really?" she sighed. "Nostalgia?" Was that his angle?
Ignoring her, he continued. "Remember swimming at the lake? And swinging off from the rope and jumping into the water?"
Despite herself, Eloise smiled. "Victor would always go last. He'd hold the rope for me and then you. Then he'd jump in after us."
"Here I cooooome," Charles said, imitating him. "That was his way, wasn't it? He always let everyone else go first." He looked back towards the staircase. "You're right, I should be with him." Without another word, Charles turned and started towards the bookcase.
"Wait," she relented.
He stopped. She stood and went to a bookcase along the wall. After a moment's search, she plucked a well-worn brown leather book from the stack. "Here," she said, handing it over to Charles. "Read to him from this. It was a favorite."
He nodded and disappeared behind the bookcase. His quiet footsteps echoed from behind the wall through the half-opened secret door, carrying him up the stairs. The latch at the top of the stairs opened. Murmurs traveled down the staircase, followed by quiet weeping.
Eloise closed her eyes, smoothing back her hair. She supposed Charles left the passageway open as punishment for refusing him. She pushed herself from the desk and hurried to the bookcase. With a hard shove, it closed with a bang and snap as the latch caught.
Leaning, with her back against the bookcase, she made a note to talk to Charles about increasing Victor's sedatives.
Chapter Seven
Stephanie
"SHE'S BARELY TOUCHED it," Stephanie whispered to Maggie after peeking out the staff door for the fourth time.
Mrs. Callowell had been sitting next to her bowl of pea soup for nearly thirty minutes without giving it as much as a stir. She just sat there, staring out the window. Stephanie wondered what could be going through her mind for so long.
Maggie shrugged. "Some days are better than others. You can fix a plate for Charles in the meantime. The dumbwaiter's over there," she said, pointing to the far wall.
"He doesn't come down for dinner?"
Maggie shook her head. "Not usually. He has his hands full with Mr. Callowell. He only comes down when the missus is watching over him. That doesn't happen much."
Stephanie nodded, retreating back into the cupboard room. She collected the necessary dishes and utensils on a silver tray along with the cover and went back into the kitchen. It was empty. Maggie must have just left.
She set the dishes on the table and ladled some soup into the bowl. She arranged the rest of his plate and covered it. As she opened the window to the dumbwaiter, voices traveled down the shaft. Charles' voice.
Stephanie leaned back and looked about the kitchen. She was definitely alone. Propping herself up against the dumbwaiter's frame, she leaned in, straining to hear. He was speaking to someone, reciting a poem that was completely unfamiliar to Stephanie.
"The firelight flickers and kisses her cheeks,
It pales and dies in the light of her smile.
She teases, tossing a hand at the fire,
Mourning her tired beauty and frigid form."
"Stop, Charles," said a strange, rough voice. It must be Mr. Callowell. "It's terrible. Really."
Charles sighed, loudly. "Yes, well, one works with what he has." Something dropped to the floor with a bang, startling Stephanie. She jumped, hitting her head off the window frame.
"What was that?" said the other man.
Stephanie hopped down from the ledge just as the window above flew open.
"Maggie?" Charles called down. "Is that you?"
Stupid girl! "It's me," Stephanie said sheepishly, looking up. His silhouette hovered above. "I'm just sending up your lunch."
"Oh," he said. "Fine, then."
She hurried, carrying the tray, struggling to keep it balanced so that it didn't spill. Hauling it up the shaft was even more difficult. When it finally arrived to its destination, she rang the bell at the side.
"You really don't need to do that when I'm already here," Charles called down.
She slammed the window shut again, fuming internally.
Maggie reappeared from the back door, carrying an empty bucket. "Has the missus finished yet?"
"Oh," Stephanie cried, skittering across the floor. She'd forgotten to check on Mrs. Callowell again.
She was, in fact, finished. Her soup sat untouched and cold, pushed to the side. Mrs. Callowell stared off into space, tapping the blunt end of her knife against the table.
Stephanie cleared the soup bowl and backed into the kitchen.
Maggie eyed the bowl as Stephanie came in. She sighed, shaking her head. "Must be a bad one," she said, under her breath.
"Should I bring out the second course?" Stephanie asked.
"Of course. Whether she eats it or not, is her choice. You just serve. I just cook."
Stephanie nodded and took the silver tray of chicken out the door. When she entered the dining room, Mrs. Callowell's chair was pushed back from the table and empty. Stephanie sighed and went back into the kitchen.
"She left," she told Maggie.
"She's a busy woman. She doesn't always have time for lunch."
Stephanie doubted that was the problem since she spent a good half an hour not eating. "Maybe something bothers her."
Maggie didn't look up. "We all have things that bother us. Like I said, you just serve, and I just cook."
"What's wrong with him?" Stephanie whispered, meekly stepping up beside Maggie.
"Mr. Callowell's a sick man, but that's no concern of yours, dear."
"I just serve."
"That's right." Maggie nodded.
"Do you ever..."
"What?"
"Do you ever get the feeling there's something about this house? Something...off." Stephanie rubbed her arms, looking around the kitchen.
Maggie stopped. "There's nothing wrong with this house."
"But there's something not right, isn't there?"
Maggie spun around on Stephanie. "Listen to me, Stephi," she said, not unkindly. "Talking nonsense won't get you very far 'round here, understand?"
Stephanie bit her lip and nodded. "But...I hear things. Noises at night when there's no one and nothing around to make noises."
"If you're talking like that now, just wait till Charlie gives you one of his books. You'll be seeing ghosts and goblins around every—"
"It's no joke, Maggie. This house is...I don't know."
"It's an old house, Stephi," she said, her patience gone. "And like any old house, it has its things. It's best to just shut up about it."
Stephanie thankfully finished the dishes earlier than usual. She could use the extra sleep. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she slipped her shoes off one at a time. She rubbed the back of her neck and the sole of her foot simultaneously. Her body ached like it never had in the Burbank house. So much for not requiring as much of me here. But it was a good kind of ache, reminding her that she had worked hard and that her wages were well-earned. Her father would be proud.
She groaned as she stood. Stepping towards the wardrobe, her fingers slipped along the rough fabric of her dress, moving from one button to the next.
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A knock came at the door. She jumped back covering her mouth. Who could it be at this hour? Probably Maggie, she told herself, stepping quietly as she fumbled to fasten the back of her dress.
Another knock shook the door just as she was about to open it. She pulled her hand back, suddenly unsure. "Who is it?"
"Charles. Are you going to open the door?"
She exhaled and pulled on the door. Charles leaned confidently against the door frame, holding out a book. "Here you are."
Stephanie took the dog-eared book and examined it in the dim light. "Who's Edgar Allan Poe?"
"If you don't already know, you're in for a treat." He stepped across the threshold, into her room.
She couldn't help but feel an uncertain amount of dread while holding it. It didn't look particularly inviting. Or was it the book's owner that sent that rock sinking to the bottom of her stomach?
"It couldn't have waited until morning?" she asked, turning the book over in her hand.
"Stories like that aren't meant for the light of day. You have to read it on a dark night, alone, to really enjoy it."
She raised her eyebrow.
"Or...maybe I just wanted to catch you alone in your room." He returned the raised eyebrow before brushing past her, into her room and looked about. "It's wonderful what you've managed to do with the place."
She folded her arms across her chest, disliking his presence in her room. It felt invasive. "Is that all?"
"I was only joking, Stephanie."
My name. She blushed, liking the way he said it, despite herself. But she shoved that feeling down into the pits of her stomach where she wouldn't let it affect her. She gripped her forearms tightly as he walked alongside her bed. Every time she tried to step forward or to ask him to leave, something stopped her, held her back. She wanted him to go, she really did. But somehow she just couldn't manage the words.
That same, rich scent permeated from him. Stephanie was surprised by its effect on her, how it drew her closer instead of driving her away like most men. Locks of dark hair stuck to his glistening neck as he bent forward over her night stand.
"What's this?" he asked, pointing to her stack of papers.
She rubbed the back of her neck, trying to relieve some of the tension that knotted it. "Nothing, Just some...papers."
He picked them up, flipping through them. "They're blank."
"I know they're blank," she said, snatching them from his hands. "I haven't written anything on them yet."
He pulled his head back, away from her. He looked her up and down, as though evaluating. "You write?"
"Yes," she said, impatiently. "I can read and write. I can dress myself, too."
"I didn't mean if you could. I asked if you do."
"Writers have pens, pencils, more than six pages to write on."
"But you want to?" he asked with curiosity.
Stephanie sighed, shutting the papers away in her dresser drawer. "I'm a maid. What I want doesn't matter."
"That's stupid."
Her eyes darted to him. "And what do you know about it?"
"Enough," he said, crossing his arms and looking down at her. "I know if you want something bad enough, you take it in whatever capacity you can get it. Or else you're a fool."
"Well, this fool has to go to sleep," she said, nodding to the bed and instantly regretting it. Her cheeks grew warm, because of her frustration, she told herself. "And I suppose you should get back to your charge."
His eye twitched, but he said nothing. He stepped up to her, once again standing far too close for her comfort. Her heart thundered under his stare.
"You should start with Tell-tale Heart, it's the best one," he said, then walked around her to the door. His footsteps stopped at the threshold as he paused a brief moment before leaving.
Alone again, she realized she was clutching the book. Her fingers hurt as she released her hold. She set it back on the bed, telling herself she would read every last word of it, no matter how terrifying it might be. And she'd never let him know how it had affected her.
Or how he did.
Eloise
THE STAIRWELL WAS BLACK except for the small candle Eloise held in front of her. The weak, orange glow floated through the air as she ascended towards Victor's room. Old, wooden steps groaned under the weight of her feet, protesting her presence, as though they knew she didn't belong on the staircase at all. Her father had had all sorts of secret doors and stairs that he believed only himself privy to. But now, it was her house. Her staircase.
She unlocked the door at the top and slipped inside. It was barely lit by a small lantern on the other side of the room.
One look inside told her she was alone in the room. Except for the ever present body lying on the bed, of course. Victor. She went to the door. Charles wasn't outside the room either.
She cursed under her breath and shut the door, locking herself inside the room. If Charles couldn't maintain his vigil, she would until he came back. She knew, even if Charles had forgotten, that Victor couldn't be left alone. That was the reality they were left with. She cursed Charles again for having forgotten that.
She crossed to the corner of the room where a chair sat beside a table. Two books shared the tabletop with a glowing lantern. She picked up the larger of the two, another adventure book of Charles'. She returned it and picked up the small, red one she recognized as Charles's own book. His thoughts, his poetry, his writing. It had been so long since he'd read her anything, since she'd heard his words in his own voice. She didn't blame him for not sharing that part of him with her anymore.
She opened the cover. His name, Charles Frances Wilford, was scrawled on the top of the first page in neat, flowing letters. The ink was dull and worn. It was one of his older books.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Heavy footsteps. Eloise closed the book and returned it to its rightful place. She swept across the room so that she could meet Charles out in the hall. She wouldn't run the risk of waking Victor while confronting Charles. That would do no one any good.
Charles's eyes widened as he caught sight of Eloise slipping out of Victor's room. Guilt shadowed his face, and he looked to the ground as she approached.
"I was only gone a moment," he said sheepishly.
"A moment? Do you not remember what he is capable of doing in just a moment? Have you forgotten about Tilly?"
"Of course I haven't. But he was asleep, completely asleep. I—"
"Enough. I don't want to hear your excuses. You know as well as I do why he must be watched constantly. What was so important that it couldn't wait until I was here to watch him?"
He looked away again. "I just had...I wanted to..."
"What?"
"I promised a book to Stephanie."
"To the maid?" She took a step back, eyeing him. "You snuck off to the maid's room in the middle of the night to give her a book?" She raised an eyebrow.
"It's not like that."
"I'm starting to grow concerned, Charles. She seems to irk you more than usual."
His face went a little slack. He stepped forward, reaching out to her. "No, it's not like that. It was just a book. And she doesn't irk me. She doesn't have any effect on me whatsoever."
She angled her chin so that she looked down on him. "Are you quite certain that it isn't going to be a problem?"
He nodded. "Yes, I swear."
"Good."
Charles swallowed hard.
She brushed past him and turned around to whisper, "Because the last thing we need is another body tied to a bed."
Chapter Eight
Stephanie
STEPHANIE DIDN'T KNOW where she was. All around her was dark and empty, and the only thing she could feel was a deep constriction around her neck. She writhed, trying to get away. Something hard tightened, pressing down on her throat. With every movement she made, it dug harder, crushing her throat. Her stomach sunk into her bowels as she felt the cartilage in her windpipe bending. She clawed the air in fr
ont of her but touched nothing. Whatever it was, it was too far away. She thought her eyes would explode.
"Stephanie," a soft voice whispered close to her ear.
Stephanie jerked awake. She'd heard something. A voice, she thought. It was already gone though. A dream. Just a dream. Her fingers went to her aching throat.
She sat up and looked about the room. It was quiet and still. She didn't even hear Maggie snoring. Strange, she thought.
The room had grown cold, the air heavy and damp. She pulled the covers close to her chin and shivered in the darkness. Her eyes scanned the room again, taking a more discerning look. The sliver of light coming in from the window cast an oblong X on the floor. The heavy curtains ballooned out, under the weight of a weak breeze coming in the window. Had she opened the window?
She slipped her legs out from under the covers, onto the floor, flinching at the cold surface. She rubbed her arms. Her chemise was far too thin for the damp cold of the country.
She rushed to the window, her toes skimming the surface of the floor as she skittered across it. The dark window loomed before her. She'd never been able to look comfortably through a dark window. As silly as it was, she was too fearful of what lay on the other side. Although both sides were dark, hers was a familiar darkness. The shadows outside were foreign and unknowable. Anything could appear in a dark window.
Thankfully, the nearly full moon shone brightly, unhindered by clouds. The window was stuck and didn't want to budge. On her tip-toes, she pushed with all her weight and the window finally relinquished, slamming against the windowpane.
As the window hit, she heard the door's bolt slip from its latch hole in the wall. She spun around, leaning against the sill. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. A mere centimeter of darkness separated the door and the frame. She waited, her heart in her throat.
Creeeeak.
The door opened slowly.
Creeeeeeeak.
The black space behind the door widened.
Stephanie launched herself from the window sill toward the door, slamming it shut. It must have opened when the window closed, she assured herself as she ran back to the bed. It was just the wind.
