The Haunting of Ripewood Manor

by Clara Cody

  Stephanie's shoulders slumped in defeat. Whatever happened was, from now on, up to Mrs. Burbank. She walked across the foyer, practically dragging herself.

  She'd been so close, so sure she'd had the woman's claws out from her skin. Emotion rose in the back of her throat and she picked up her pace. Breaking down in the foyer would do her no good. She hurried through the dining room, bumping chairs as she hurried past and blew into the cupboard room. Placing the tray on the cupboard counter, she dropped to her knees and released the weak sobs building in her throat and behind her eyes but nothing came. She gasped for air and panted but there were no tears stinging her eyes as she'd expected.

  That's enough, she thought, regaining her composure. She pushed herself to her feet again, taking deep, slow breaths.

  The door to the dining room opened. Before she looked up from the silver tray, she knew who stood there. She could feel Charles's presence as much as smell his cologne. She breathed him in and turned.

  "What happened?" he said, his face full of concern. He took a step towards her. "You looked as though you'd seen a ghost."

  "I...I'm fine."

  "The hell you are. You're trembling." He took her hands in his. "You look terrible, are you sure you're not sick?"

  Stephanie gently pulled her hands away and stepped back. "I'm fine, sir."

  Charles flinched. "I told you not to call me that."

  She lifted her chin. "It is my place to pay proper respect to those above my station." She had to clench her teeth. She didn't know where this sudden insolence had come from. But as terrified as she was that it might cost her her job, she was more terrified of letting it slip away. That propriety, those rules were like a mask, something she could hide behind and use to keep Charles at a distance. If she didn't have that, then she was left bare and vulnerable before Charles. She couldn't let him see her like that. She couldn't bear it.

  His nostrils flared as he worked his jaw back and forth, staring at her. He lifted his chin in response. "Fine." He flew back through the doorway, leaving her cold and fuming in his wake.

  It's a positively frightful day outside, Eloise! I may have to spend the night. The weather wasn't bad enough to stop Mrs. Burbank from going out for a stroll with Charles, though. Stephanie could just picture the two of them, walking around the maze outside, Mrs. Burbank laughing at everything Charles said that had even the slightest whiff of humor.

  "Have the carrots angered you in some way?" Maggie asked, cocking her head to the side.

  "What?" She looked down at the table. No form or pattern lay in the chopped chunks of carrot lying amongst thin gouges on the board. Maggie's eyes were wide as she followed the knife in Stephanie's hand. "Oh, I guess I might have been a little...distracted."

  Maggie rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Cut the carrots but don't break my knife, destroy my cutting board, or cut yourself."

  "I suppose that's fair," Stephanie said, returning to a more methodical form of chopping.

  "Are you all right?" Maggie asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  "Why do you keep asking me that?"

  "Because you seem ready to crack and you have a knife. Those things aren't usually complementary."

  "I'm fine."

  "Horse shit," Maggie said.

  Stephanie stared at her, shocked. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Oh, you heard me. You're not fine and the reason you keeping getting asked is 'cause it's written all over your damned face."

  Stephanie ground her teeth and looked away. "I'm just tired."

  "Still having trouble sleeping?"

  Stephanie nodded. "There, the carrots are finished." She wiped her forehead with her sleeve. "If you don't mind, Maggie. I'm going to lie down a spell. I'm not feeling so well, after all."

  "I told you. Go ahead, I can finish the rest."

  Stephanie nodded and retreated towards the door.

  "Just be back in time to set dinner out."

  She nodded again. She'd be back long before dinner. Long before the party had returned from their walk.

  She crept up the stairs and turned towards the East Wing. She'd never known both Charles and Mrs. Callowell to be out of the house at the same time and she would probably never have another opportunity like this. A strange smell hung in the air; it was a mixture of fragrant tobacco and the stink that comes from the black, rich mud at the bottom of a bog. She stopped, sniffing at the air. The smell grew stronger until she almost regurgitated her lunch. Even breathing through her mouth didn't help much, as she could still taste it as the spoiled air passing over her tongue. She didn't know which was worse.

  Finally, she was in front of the door. She held a clenched fist in front of her face, poised to knock.

  "If you are waiting for me to answer the door, I'm afraid you'll be waiting a long time." The voice from the other side of the door was groggy and far-away sounding.

  She tried the doorknob but it jiggled impotently. "It's locked," she whispered, pressing her nose against the crack between the door and its frame.

  "That's a pickle," the man groaned.

  "I...I should go."

  "Wait," he groaned. "Don't go." His words came out slowly but no less desperate. "Who are you?"

  "I'm the maid."

  "The maid...do you know who I am?"

  "You're Mr. Callowell."

  Mad maniacal laughter sprang from the room and stopped suddenly. "Am I?"

  "You're sick."

  "Ah, but that is the truth. A sickness fixed upon me." Chains rattled from within. "By my captors."

  "Then, who are you?"

  "Is that really why you are standing at my door? To learn my name?"

  "I—I suppose not."

  A heavy silence hung in the air.

  The words she wanted lingered on the tip of her tongue. She tried to force them from her lips. "I...I have to go." It came out as a choked whisper.

  The bed groaned and heavy footsteps smacked across the floor, running towards the door. A loud bang shook the heavy wooden door and Stephanie jumped back. She looked down the hall with the intent to flee.

  "You want to know who I am?" he whispered through the door. "You want to know me?"

  She looked from the door to the hallway and back again. She stepped up to the door and pressed her ear close to the crack. The sound of labored breathing seeped through the door.

  "I am the devil. And I can smell your death from here."

  Loud maniacal laughter chased her down the hallway as she fled, holding her skirts in one hand and the locket's pendant in the other.

  Stephanie landed at the foot of the stairs as the front door swung open. Charles's face fell from a wide smile when he laid eyes on her. His eyebrows furrowed in concern but she turned quickly, meaning to pass into the dining room.

  Mrs. Burbank's shrill voice rang through the foyer. "Oh Stephanie," she sang.

  "Yes, ma'am," she said, turning with her eyes downcast.

  "Take these flowers to my room for me."

  Stephanie held out her hands, waiting for a bunch of flowers to enter her field of vision. She bit her lip as she realized her hands were still shaking. "Yes, ma'am," she said as she grasped the collection of wildflowers. At least Mrs. Burbank wouldn't think twice of Stephanie quivering in her boots before her. That was nothing new.

  Mrs. Burbank turned away without another word and Stephanie spun and raced up the stairs before she could stop her again. She avoided looking at Charles, who watched her from the doorway.

  Chapter 16

  Stephanie

  ONCE EVERYONE ELSE was in bed, Stephanie snuck out of the mansion again that night. Thankfully, the moon was brighter and the path before her better lit as she ventured away from the house, hiding beneath her shawl. Cold wind blew the shawl from her head and swirled around her face, dragging stray hairs with it. Fighting against the air, she pulled it haphazardly around her head.

  She hadn't had an opportunity to check the tree where she'd left the paper for Mr. Bixle
y.

  She hurried along the path, keeping her head down to fight off the wind nipping at her cheeks and nose. She repositioned her shawl around her head and shoulders for the twelfth time and soldiered on. The wind whipping inside her shawl and around her ears seemed to carry voices, whispers in the darkness.

  A haunting, howling voice. Stephanie, it whispered. She tried to tell herself it was just her imagination. And she tried to believe it.

  Stephanie...

  "Stop," she whispered, halting. It's all foolishness. Wind whipped past her ears, curling around them like soft hairs.

  Stephanie...

  "Stop it," she demanded.

  Stephanie!

  Stephanie covered her ears with her hands and took off, running the rest of the way to the tree, ignoring the biting cold plaguing her exposed fingers. They ached as she fell against the tree. Flexing them did not relieve the sting. She stuck them under her arms and walked around to the front of the tree.

  The hole was located just within reach of her hand, but if the note had fallen any deeper into the hole, she'd need something to stand on. The black hole loomed, waiting for her to try and collect its contents. What if there was something inside, she wondered. A small animal or bird. Or a bat. She cringed at the idea. Closing her eyes and balancing on her toes, she reached into the hole, grasping and praying.

  Her fingertips traced the rough edges of a nail, forced into the soft, inner lip of the hollow. Along its base she found a string, weighed down with something at the end. She pulled it up, careful to not lose her hold on the string. As she suspected, it was an envelope. She tore it free, flung the string back into the hole, and returned to the path towards the house. She stuffed the envelope deep into her pocket, clenching it tightly.

  The wind continued but at least it blew to her back, pushing her towards the mansion. She forced herself to keep her eyes pointed ahead and not look around. For no explicable reason, she felt eyes staring at her from behind every tree she passed. A certain instinct insisted that if she spared a look above, she'd see faces floating amongst the branches, following her from tree to tree. So she kept her eyes where they were, looking ahead.

  She arrived to the house and dashed up the front stairs. Like a trickle of water, seeping into the earth, she slipped back inside.

  Everything was dark and quiet. Warmth spread over her skin but her bones still shook with cold. She fumbled her way to the stairs, hands outstretched before her. Once she found the tall, thick post at the bottom, she flitted up the stairs as quickly as possible, dying to know what the letter said. She would read it once she was inside her room. She wasn't far.

  Stephanie slipped through her door, closing it firmly behind her and let out a great sigh of relief. A phantom hand clasped Stephanie's arm and spun her around. Before she had a chance to scream out, another hand clamped down over her mouth as she was pinned against the door.

  "Shhhh, now," Mrs. Burbank whispered. "We don't want to wake anyone up."

  Stephanie nodded her head.

  Mrs. Burbank's eyes looked over her, taking her in. Stephanie didn't need to. Although months had passed, Mrs. Burbank looked the exact same. Not even a hair out of place. She could only imagine how she looked to the woman.

  "What were you doing?" she asked, genuinely curious.

  "I...I—"

  Mrs. Burbank scoffed and tossed Stephanie's arm away, eyeing her intently. "Still can't manage a goddamned sentence, I see."

  Stephanie looked about the room. Clothes and her few personal things were scattered about. The book Charles had given her was on the floor, open, where it had been discarded. She had practically torn her room apart looking for the locket. Stephanie seethed.

  "Where is it?" Mrs. Burbank asked, her lips curled back in a snarl.

  "Wh-what?" Stephanie knew exactly what she wanted but buying time had never hurt her. Unfortunately, Mr. Burbank wasn't there to intercede on her behalf. Thankfully though, Mr. Burbank wasn't there to make Mrs. Burbank's own interventions necessary. She didn't know whose help she had resented or required more. For the time being though, she was left, face-to-face, with Mrs. Burbank.

  "I'm not buying your dumb act anymore, Stephanie," she spat. "You're a thief, and I'm going to get it back. One way or another."

  Stephanie resisted, with all her strength, grabbing hold of the locket around her neck. If Mrs. Burbank knew how close she was...

  "By the by, don't think I haven't noticed the looks passing between you and Charles. He always was one to be easily led astray. I never thought he'd sink so low as to share lingering looks with a maid, but you never know." She took a deep breath as she considered Stephanie's face. "Then again, I once thought the same thing about my husband. So much for that."

  Stephanie clenched her jaw as she fought off memories of that night. "I didn't steal my locket," she said, quietly.

  "It's my locket!" she yelled, slamming a hand against the door behind Stephanie. "Mine!" Mrs. Burbank stood back, suddenly aware of how loud she spoke. She looked down at her dress and smoothed out the fabric. "You knew perfectly well what you were trading and you got what you wanted. Now, it's my turn. You know what I want, Stephanie. If I don't get it, I will be forced to resort to less pleasant measures. And I'm sure Eloise would be more than delighted to hear the unsavory stories I've collected over the years." She pushed Stephanie aside with a swipe of her hand and opened the door.

  Standing on the threshold, she turned back to Stephanie. "I'll leave this house and leave you alone as soon as the locket is returned to me. The sooner the better; I don't want to stay in this god-forsaken house any longer than I have to. Don't be so selfish, Stephanie. Besides, it was my birthright just as much as yours."

  Stephanie listened as Mrs. Burbank's footsteps echoed down the hallway and away from her door. She heard the door open and the woman's footsteps were swallowed by the narrow staircase.

  Her heart racing, she dove for the door and slammed it shut, not caring if Maggie heard and woke up or not.

  She listened as Mrs. Burbank's steps carried her down the hall, exhaling when they were too far away to hear. Damn you, she thought, her fist hitting the door. She raced for the lantern by the bed and lit it. Under the flickering light, she tore open Theodore's letter.

  Dear Ms. Kitling,

  I took the paper you left to mean that you are open to hearing what I have to say in regards to the house and the family residing in it. I am grateful for your trust, and I will not take it lightly.

  What I know so far is this: Several young women, all working in the position of maid, have gone missing from the manor. I believe this to be no coincidence and advise you to leave immediately.

  I understand you may not believe me just yet so I have dedicated myself to finding out as much as possible while I am here (one of the benefits to being a sleuth).

  In all certainty, I have learned that there are at least three girls who have gone missing in the past 10 years from the house. The most recent was a Miss Tilly Simmons, which was just five short months ago. Then, there was Miss Katie Thomas three years ago and Miss Ellen Motts eight years ago.

  The people in town don't like speaking of the house, so it has been difficult finding any solid information, but I promise you I will continue looking. If you can learn anything inside, whether by speaking amongst the help (I'm well aware of how you people gossip), or by doing your own sleuthing, it would be most helpful. However, I do suggest you be careful, as we don't yet know what we're dealing with.

  I will be waiting for word from you.

  Sincerely,

  Theodore Bixley

  P.S. Please destroy this message.

  Stephanie covered her mouth as she finished the letter. Tilly. She'd heard that name before. Three women in eight years wasn't necessarily something to run to the police about. There were a multitude of reasons why someone might leave. But deep down, Stephanie knew that it wasn't a coincidence. She felt it in her bones.

  But what of Theodore Bixle
y? Could he be trusted? Was it any more foolish to remain here than to trust a man who'd been hired to find out her secrets?

  Chapter 17

  Stephanie

  WAKING UP THE NEXT morning, Stephanie felt almost drunk from exhaustion. It had taken her an hour to clean the mess that Mrs. Burbank left in Stephanie's room while searching for the locket, and then several more hours to actually fall asleep.

  "Jesus, child," Maggie said when Stephanie entered the kitchen. She looked as though she was about to say something but pressed her lips together, biting back the words.

  "I'm fine," Stephanie assured her, understanding full well what she wanted to say.

  "You still having bad dreams?"

  Stephanie shook her head, forcing a smile.

  "You'd better hurry, don't want Mrs. Burbank making it down for breakfast before you've had a chance to prepare it. She don't seem the patient type."

  "You have a keen eye," Stephanie said.

  Charles was the first person to enter the dining hall for breakfast. His hair fell about his face in thick, dark curls and he wore a well-tailored blue suit. Stephanie tried not to look at him.

  He walked over to where she stood, placing plates around the table. She didn't look at him directly but she could tell he was working himself up to something.

  "Stephanie, I want to have a word with you."

  She stopped and turned to face him, casting her eyes downward.

  He scoffed. "Please, enough of that. Look, I just want to—"

  Just then, Mrs. Callowell walked into the dining hall and Charles muttered a curse under his breath. Mrs. Callowell looked as tired and short-tempered as Stephanie felt and rolled her eyes as Charles stepped away from Stephanie.

  "Is our guest up yet?" she asked as Charles pulled her chair out for her.

  Charles took a seat beside Mrs. Callowell. "I haven't seen her and I would think this would be the first place she'd go." He lowered his voice. "Do we expect her to stay another night?"

  Stephanie saw Mrs. Callowell's eyes grow narrow in a meaningful glare.