The Haunting of Ripewood Manor

by Clara Cody

  Despite herself, she missed Charles' company. His lumbering walk, the smell of his skin, the way he looked at her. His touch. She closed her eyes, remembering the other night and the way his fingers gently brushed her cheek. If only he'd stayed a moment longer with her. If only he'd kissed her. A memory to warm her during the long, cold nights.

  Another knock rang out, like an urgent bell tolling from the distance. She flinched at the sound, gnashing her teeth.

  Stephanie set her book down tentatively and stared out the open doors into the foyer, listening for any sound suggesting someone else had heard. Chewing her lips, she stood from the chair and started towards the door. She pressed a hand against her stomach in an attempt to calm its fluttering. She didn't want to be the one to open the door. She could just imagine the men's eyes on her, prodding her with their questions and waiting for her to give away more than she'd intended.

  She braced herself against the door frame and poked her head out of the room just as Mrs. Callowell came barreling down the hall towards the door. She saw Stephanie standing in the doorway and snapped her fingers, telling Stephanie to go back to her book.

  Stephanie shrunk back behind the wall but didn't retreat. She listened as the door swung open and Mrs. Callowell cordially and warmly greeted the inquisitors. Warmth and welcoming was something Mrs. Callowell seemed to save in her voice, building it up to a point where it could be easily accessed when she really needed it. And in those moments, even Stephanie had to admit, she was terribly charming.

  Mrs. Callowell laughed gaily. "Yes, please, sirs, come in. I haven't the foggiest idea where you might have gotten a notion like that, but please come in." The door closed behind the heavy footsteps.

  Stephanie pushed herself from the wall and hurried into the center of the room. From there, she walked, careful to maintain an appearance of grace, to the couch. Keeping her eyes down, she went to the front of the seat and sat in her previous position and opened her book on her lap.

  Mrs. Callowell appeared in the doorway, followed by two men.

  If Stephanie hadn't known better, she'd have thought they were old friends of Mrs. Callowell by the way she smiled and swayed as she walked. She gestured to Stephanie as they entered. "This my dear niece, Megan. Please excuse her, she's mute."

  "Mute?" one of the men said. He was a portly, baby-faced man, with hair and clothes that mirrored the older, robust man behind him. The older man was square-shouldered and wore a neatly-trimmed mustache and round glasses. Despite his graying hair, he looked fit and able. Stephanie tore her eyes from him and back down to her book.

  "Yes," Mrs. Callowell said, regret heavy-laden in her tone. "Poor dear has never spoken a word. She communicated with us by way of a notebook and pen."

  The young man nodded sadly and looked away from Stephanie. The older man did not. His eyes scanned Stephanie and then the area around her. "A notebook, you say?"

  "Yes."

  "Was she not planning on interacting with anyone today?"

  "What do you mean?" Mrs. Callowell asked. Her smile didn't falter for a moment.

  "She has no pen or paper as far as I can see. Shouldn't she have it with her?"

  A scowl crossed Mrs. Callowell's face. "Indeed, you're right Mr. Graham." She took a step towards Stephanie. "Go on, now, Megan. I believe you left it on my desk in the library." She turned back to the men and lowered her voice. "I'm afraid she's not terribly social. She often times leaves her book hidden away so that she has an excuse to not communicate with people."

  The younger man shook his head. "You must treat children like that with strict discipline. It's the only way to help them."

  Stephanie glared, noting that he appeared the same age as herself. Children, indeed.

  Mr. Graham, however, just watched her. His gray, bushy eyebrows pinched together as she passed him like a mouse sneaking under an owl's nest.

  Down the hall, she ran to the library. For once, the door was unlocked. Just as Mrs. Callowell had said, there was a notebook and pen laying on the desk. Instead of leaving once she had them, she remained behind the door, listening. She wanted to avoid the men. Especially Mr. Graham.

  When she heard footsteps ascending the stairs, she ducked out the door and crept along the hall.

  Mrs. Callowell's voice carried down the stairs. "I'm afraid my husband isn't home at present. He's in Europe taking care of the estate in Spain and some business abroad in the meantime. We expect..." Her voice drifted off.

  Stephanie glanced back down the hallway towards the library. For the first time since she'd arrived in the house, she was certain that the library—and whatever was hidden inside—was unattended. She tiptoed back down the hall and slipped inside the library again, leaving the door ajar so that she could hear anyone approaching.

  She went immediately to the desk on the opposite wall. The was fairly organized, a vast difference from the only other time Stephanie had seen the room when stacks of papers and books had littered the surface.

  Stephanie pulled open the drawers and rifled through their benign contents. Drawer after drawer brought only disappointment.

  Then, Stephanie went to the bookshelf at the side. Even if she cleared the desk, she would have had to put the numerous books somewhere. Perhaps Mrs. Callowell had hidden them in plain sight. A quick browse of the shelves; however, proved that it wasn't the case. Mrs. Callowell had cleared everything of interest from the room.

  Stephanie scanned the shelves again, more carefully, starting with the shelf just above her head. She quickly realized the form of organization used. The first shelf was dedicated to scientific texts, except for one, a book of the political systems in ancient China. Stephanie pulled the large, leather-bound book down from the shelf and judged the weight in her hands. It was surprisingly light given its size. Stephanie cracked in open and stifled a gasp.

  A sizable revolver sat embedded within the pages. She set her fingers atop the smooth, cold iron. An overwhelming sick feeling charged through her as she touched it and she pulled her fingers back. She snapped the book shut and hefted it back between the other texts.

  The next shelf contained mostly fictional novels of every sort: adventure, horror, war. Again, there was one book which stood out amongst the rest: a thin book of love sonnets. A pattern formed. She pulled it from the shelf and let it fall open. Several plaits of hair lay across the pages. Blonde, red, chestnut, black, strawberry. Stephanie's stomach churned. She bent over, dropping the book. Breathing through it, she waited for the roiling nausea to pass.

  When it finally did, she bent over and collected the thin locks of hair and replaced them in the book. She looked from the book to the empty space on the shelf and back again.

  Suddenly, voices called out, making her jump. She spun around to face the door, only to realize the voices weren't coming from the door. Turning, she pressed her hands against the bookcase and listened. Her mouth fell open as she realized that the voices came from behind the wall. Grasping the sides, she shook it. It rattled gently on a hinge of some sort but didn't move.

  She moved down to the next shelf and scanned it for the odd one out. It was full of books on world geography with one dull-looking book about traveling the orient. Stephanie took a deep breath and reached for it. It was stuck. The book wasn't large but it seemed to be lodged within the wall. The voices grew slightly louder. They were in Victor's room.

  With a great heave, she pulled the book from its place. It stopped halfway out and the bookshelf gave a small groan and click. Something had been released. Stephanie wiggled the shelf again, and, this time, it fell away from the wall.

  She reached out her fingertips and nudged the bookshelf. It pulled away from the wall easily. Mrs. Callowell and the men's voices were clearer. She took a deep breath and peered inside.

  A small, dark landing lay directly behind the door, flanked by a steep, winding wooden staircase. Stacks of books and paper crowded the corner of the landing. Stephanie looked back at the cleared desk and again to t
he stacks of books hidden away. A smile nudged at the side of her mouth. She knelt down before them.

  The books were all about religious symbolism, exorcisms, and various aspects of the afterlife. Loose papers were tucked in between the books. On top of one particularly large stack, lay a thick, leather-bound book, closed with leather straps.

  Suddenly the voices drew her attention away from the book.

  "What's this then?" Mr. Graham asked gruffly, as though he'd caught Mrs. Callowell at something. "Why should there be scratches around all the bedposts?"

  Stephanie's stomach sank. She got to her feet and started up the wooden staircase, creeping like a vine up the walls. As she wound her way up, their voices became clearer. Mrs. Callowell was speaking with a surprising ease and chuckle in her voice. The further she made it up the stairs, the more light drained away until she could see nothing in front of her face.

  Holding a hand out, she moved cautiously until she touched a wall at the top of the stairs. She felt around the wall and discovered it was a door but without a lock or knob. She pressed her ear against the door.

  "...naturally," Mrs. Callowell continued, "my poor mother had no other choice but to strap me to the bed at night. I know it must seem rather barbaric, but really, what else was she to do?"

  "Yes, yes, quite right," said the younger man. "I have a cousin that used to sleepwalk. He once tried to light the fire in his own bed. Quite a dangerous affliction."

  "And what is this?" the other man asked, sounding rather closer to the door. Stephanie couldn't help but pull away. His proximity, even separated by a door, was too much.

  "Only a closet, sir. Old toys and such. I assure you, there's little of interest inside."

  "I prefer to be the judge of what I'll find interesting, thank you."

  Stephanie's heart thumped. She stepped back, bracing herself on the sidewall. She closed her eyes as a door was thrown open.

  The warm light she was expecting never came. She opened her eyes to see that the door remained closed. The man was rustling through what sounded like clothes and boxes. Stephanie almost laughed in relief. A sharp knock on the door cured her of that. Mr. Graham knocked on the other sides of the closet and harrumphed.

  "Shall I show you the rooms in the West Wing?"

  Stephanie considered it a good time to retreat. Watching the door, she crept back down the way she'd come, gripping the walls and stepping lightly. Reaching the light at the bottom of the stairwell was a relief.

  She knelt back down before the book and placed it in her lap. She untied the thin straps and cracked open the book. The pages fell away slowly, as if by magic, and landed on one with black, scrawling writing. Stephanie recognized Mrs. Callowell's neat, precise writing.

  Even my dreams have turned against me. Last night, it was a woman. Another one from before. I didn't even know her this time. I wonder if there is a human alive that can bear to live like this.

  My father has written to me this past week. He's returning to Ripewood. Victor and I discussed leaving ourselves; we could go to the manor in the north of Spain for a time. But I know it won't do.

  Stephanie turned the page. She noted that no dates marked the entries.

  My father has returned. He has passed only three days here and already the staff is terrified of him. Victor won't leave my side, but I can see how it plagues him. My poor husband.

  Stephanie's gut twisted as she called to mind the man she'd seen in the picture of the three youngsters with her mother. Then, she was swarmed with the image of the man, weeping and begging after he'd attacked her.

  She moved to the opposite page.

  It is done. It is finally finished. Although, I worry if the cure won't prove to be as bad as the disease. Already, I see how my husband suffers with the guilt. I only hope that in time, he will see it was for the best. For us all.

  MY MOTHER'S BROOCH has gone missing. As I recall seeing it this morning in my jewelry box, I suspect that one of the maids might have taken it. Victor has offered to question them tomorrow. He's been behaving strangely lately. I can't help but wonder if the whole affair hasn't affected him more than he tells me.

  Stephanie shuttered. The next page.

  I found my brooch this morning. Oddly, it was placed atop my pillow when I awoke. Whatever Victor said to the maids yesterday must have worked. Though he doesn't seem terribly happy about it. As a matter of fact, he's rather withdrawn and despondent today. Perhaps a trip to the city will lighten his spirits.

  In the past weeks, several of my possessions have gone missing, only to reappear the next day in the most unlikely and obvious of places. I found my pearl necklace laying in the bottom of my washbasin, and my hair comb in the middle of my floor. I don't believe it is the work of a maid anymore. At times, I sense a pair of eyes on me, following me from place to place. Just this morning, I was in the library when I had the sudden idea that there was someone behind me. The feeling was so strong, I could almost feel fingers reaching towards me. When I turned, I completely expected to find a person there, watching me. But I was quite alone.

  As she read, Stephanie experienced a similar feeling. She shot a look behind her, to make sure she was still alone in the library. Stephanie shook her head and returned to the book, telling herself it was her imagination.

  Odd feelings have been plaguing me for many weeks now. Yesterday, I was sitting at my vanity table, brushing my hair before retiring for the night, when I had the sudden urge to turn around. I can't explain it any better than that, I'm afraid. I ignored it, not wanting to be a slave to every whim that my active imagination presents me with (as the number has been growing exponentially), but the feeling continued to plague me. That was when my eye caught something moving in the corner of the mirror. There my husband stood, half his body hidden behind the wall, watching me from the doorway with such a look on his face as I've never seen before. Not on his kind, sweet face, at least. I screamed before fully realizing that it was him, but he seemed not at all bothered by it. When I asked him what he was doing, he simply grinned and drew away, melting back into the darkness. I am beginning to worry if something much worse than guilt is what is plaguing him.

  It has been months since my last entry to these pages. I couldn't bring myself to repeat, even in writing, what has passed. My poor sweet husband is mad. I've written to Charles just this week and paid a great sum of money to the poor girl. My husband is upstairs, restrained in my old room so that he can't hurt anyone. What else could I do? If the police knew, he would be sent to prison, or worse, an asylum. Keeping him is the greatest kindness I can give him now. Poor girl. I fear she'll never be the same.

  Chapter 42

  Stephanie

  LOUD, THUMPING FOOTSTEPS were descending the staircase to the foyer. Stephanie snapped the book shut and replaced it on its unsteady perch atop the other books.

  After sealing the bookshelf behind her, she hitched up her skirts and ran from the room.

  Mrs. Callowell stood with the men in the center of the foyer. The young man seemed genuinely enthralled with what Mrs. Callowell was going on about but Mr. Graham continued looking about. Stephanie caught his eye as he scanned the foyer. She immediately looked downward and stepped aside so that her back was to the wall as she prayed for him to look away. She didn't dare look up until she heard the door close behind them again.

  Mrs. Callowell walked down the hall towards her. The weight on Stephanie's chest lifted considerably. "Is it done, then?" she asked.

  Mrs. Callowell looked over her shoulder to the door and back to Stephanie and nodded. "That Mr. Graham might have been trouble if his companion weren't such a fool. Luckily, it's the fool that runs the asylum so I don't think we'll be hearing from them again." Mrs. Callowell started down the hall.

  Stephanie walked behind her, continuing. "But what if Mr. Graham investigates? He'll find out quickly enough that I'm not Megan."

  She stopped at the library door, her hand on the doorknob. "No, he won't. He'll find that I
do, in fact, have a mute niece named Megan. She is currently attending a private school in the city so it wouldn't be strange for her to visit me. Furthermore, the school values the privacy of its pupils more than most, and he will find it very difficult to gain access. I assure you, Mr. Graham will not find anything to pique his interest long."

  An uneasy relief settled over Stephanie. "What will we do now?"

  "You can go to the lake house and tell the men to return. I trust you remember the way." Mrs. Callowell raised her eyebrow.

  Stephanie blushed and looked back to her shoes. "I'll find my way."

  "Very well." The library door closed behind her.

  The wind blew hard off the lake, whipping her hair around her face. As she walked the edge of the forest, approaching the cabin, distant shouts mingled with the fierce gale.

  Arriving to the path leading up to the cabin, she noticed someone had cleared the space of poison ivy, something her hands and feet were grateful for. A sudden shout drew her attention upwards. Something flew through the front window, sending shards of glass flying after it.

  Stephanie picked up her skirts and ran for the door. She barged through it, into a scene of madness. Broken glass and soot lay across the floor. Charles had pinned Theodore to the floor, amongst pieces of a broken chair. The priest was shouting, trying to pull him off, while Victor lay in a pike position, watching the scene gleefully.

  "What the devil is happening?" she shouted from the door. The players in the curious tableau turned simultaneously towards her. Charles' face fell and he released Theodore. Stepping back, he seemed to re-evaluate the situation.

  "W-w-we were..." he exchanged looks with both Theodore and McGregor, who'd also released his hold. "We were talking."

  Theodore rolled his eyes and pushed himself to a sitting position, his hands still tied behind his back.

  Victor grumbled and threw himself back against the mattress.

  Charles looked sheepishly at Stephanie as he took her arm and pulled her outside. "Did they come yet?"