Calista

by Laura Rahme

  “Mademoiselle, it is not funny. You see, I usually place my water glass in the middle of the bedside table. When I woke up this morning, it stood much nearer to the edge. Did you perhaps see someone else enter my bedroom earlier today?”

  “No one’s come within an earshot of your room. The others are downstairs having breakfast. Besides, how would you know you did not move the glass yourself? Perhaps you felt for it in your sleep, drank, then clumsily put it back,” said Madeleine with a shrug.

  Maurice did not insist. Madeleine was right. He was being ridiculous. He must have moved the glass himself. Feeling newly doubtful, he returned to his bedroom.

  Leaning across the wash basin, Maurice poured water from the pitcher onto his face then stared into the mirror above the porcelain bowl. The sinister encounter in Calista’s room flashed in his mind. He met his wild, haggard eyes. Now you listen to me, Maurice, he thought, addressing his reflection. Keep your wits about you. Tout va bien. All is well, he repeated, as he wiped his face with the towel. He would not let himself be haunted. He had to remain level-headed.

  As he buttoned up his vest, his eye fell on the desk. An uneasy feeling swept over him. Someone had touched his journal. His writing implements lay in a disorderly fashion. Ink spots ran on the lacquered surface beside the journal. More ink blotted the page in front of him. Barely breathing, Maurice picked up the journal and turned to the previous page. He gasped. In a hideous script, with no care for spacing or form, a single word was written.

  OVEE

  Recovering from his stupor, Maurice fled the room and raced downstairs. As he entered the commons kitchen, he found Shannon and Ellen. Shannon sat at the head of the table, where the housekeeper normally ate.

  “Where is Mrs. Cleary?” he asked.

  Shannon shot Ellen a dark look as though she wished her to keep quiet. “She is not awake yet,” she said. “Would you like some tea, Mr. Leroux?”

  Maurice made no answer. He steadied himself, placing a hand against the wall. Silence hung above the wooden table where the maids were having breakfast. The only sound was the crackling of the hearth fire, casting its warmth throughout the tiled room.

  “Mr. Leroux, you look awfully tired today,” noted Ellen in a sweet voice. She’d ceased eating and stared at him.

  Shannon glowered. It was unlike the young Ellen to speak up so rashly but Mrs. Cleary’s absence seemed to give the girl confidence. Shannon studied Maurice. He had as yet not answered her offer for tea. He seemed stunned, almost shaken. A knowing glint passed through her eyes.

  “We are all afraid, with many ways of hiding it,” she whispered, still gazing up at the Frenchman. Despite her unexpected gentleness, her tone had a distinct, I-told-you-so quality.

  Maurice smiled thinly. He couldn’t bring himself to reveal the dread he felt. “Miss O’Sullivan, where is Mrs. Cleary?” he asked again.

  “The truth is, she is ill. You must understand that the past two months have been a trial for her, what with Mr. Nightingale passing away and then...”

  “She saw it,” blurted Ellen.

  “Ellen, please be quiet.” Shannon turned apologetically to Maurice. “Pay no mind, Inspector Leroux. Like I said, Mrs. Cleary is not well.”

  “What were you saying, Ellen?” asked Maurice, ignoring Shannon’s protests. “What did Mrs. Cleary see?”

  Ellen hesitated. She averted her gaze from Shannon’s scornful face. “She saw the ghost. It was early this morning, around six. Mary was still asleep. I took Willy out for a pee and saw Mrs. Cleary through the glass doors.”

  “Ellen, be quiet!” cut in Shannon as she slapped a hand on the table.

  Maurice ignored her. “Go on,” he urged Ellen.

  “She was acting… strange, like she was afraid and seemed about to swoon. So I ran back inside and I saw her trembling and clutching the stairs. She looked awful.”

  “She was just ill,” dismissed Shannon.

  “No!” cried Ellen. “She told me she saw Calista’s ghost. Then she collapsed on the stairs and did not move. I thought she was passed out but Gerard came out of the kitchen to see how she was and she told him she would be retiring for the rest of the day.”

  “I see,” replied Maurice.

  “She’s resting now,” explained Shannon after lapsing into silence. “I think we’ll get along just fine without her. We’ve got plenty of work to get through before Sunday. You finish cleaning up, Ellen, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Ellen promptly obeyed.

  “May I ask you something, Miss O’Sullivan?” asked Maurice who still lingered by the doorway.

  “What is it?”

  “This scar, on your hand, how did you get it?”

  Shannon blushed.

  “It’s not so bad. It’s a long story. Willy bit me.”

  Maurice frowned. “Willy? Mary’s little dog? You find me surprised. It looks like he wouldn’t harm a fly.”

  “I don’t know what came over him that day. But it’s been years. He’s been harmless ever since. There’s nothing to worry about now.”

  Maurice reflected on Willy’s unusual behaviour.

  “What about the scars I see on Mary’s neck and arms?” he asked, watching Shannon’s reaction.

  Her eyes had widened. “I don’t know what you mean,” came her evasive reply.

  “Very well.” Maurice sighed. Shannon was too fearful to speak against the housekeeper. He returned to the purpose of his visit. “Miss O’Sullivan, have you ever heard of the name, Ovee?” he asked, feeling his pulse quicken.

  Shannon looked confused though the earlier tension in her voice was gone. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

  Maurice nodded. He’d have to ask Mrs. Cleary later.

  He left the room. As he neared the kitchen, he glimpsed Madeleine, helping Gerard tend to the stove. She’d rolled up her sleeves and bore stains up to her elbows. Both were laughing, and even Gerard sported a rare grin as he applied black lead to the cast iron surfaces.

  Catching sight of Maurice, Madeleine whispered something to the cook then darted to the French doors. She poked her head out. “Now is the right time,” she whispered. “I can fetch that key for you.”

  “How will you manage?”

  “Oh, I have my ways,” she smiled. “Shannon’s found herself a new role as housekeeper. She’ll be keeping us busy all day. But don’t worry. This afternoon, I plan to sneak into Mrs. Cleary’s bedroom. I’ll find that key. If she awakes and surprises me, I’ll say I was looking for next week’s grocery list.”

  “Didn’t you tell me earlier this week she sleeps with her eyes open? What if she sees you?”

  “No fuss, Mr. Leroux. It’ll be fun. You’ll have that key by your bedside tonight.”

  The cellar

  MAURICE felt anxious all day. He feared that Mrs. Cleary might awake before Madeleine had the chance to fetch the cellar key. It was around eight o’clock when he climbed upstairs just as Madeleine furtively emerged from his bedroom. She nodded, then walked past him.

  “Done,” she whispered. “Shannon caught me leaving Mrs. Cleary’s room. I told her I had come in to pick up soiled linen and didn’t find any.”

  “Thank you, Madeleine.”

  As Madeleine dashed downstairs, Maurice entered his bedroom and closed the door. He found a copper key by the bedside and slid it into his pocket.

  He waited for hours. When he was certain the household had retired, he rose and left his bedroom. It was a humid night and the moist air had clouded all the windows of Alexandra Hall.

  Clad in his woollen nightrobe, Maurice carried a small lamp which he would light once he was through the cellar door. The faint moonlight from the high windows illuminated his path down the staircase. In place of leather shoes, he’d worn his slippers to muffle the sound of his footsteps. He hoped this might also allay suspicion should he be discovered roaming the house at night.

  As he reached the ornate cellar door on the first floor, he glimpsed a slithering shadow behind hi
m, towards the stairwell. Maurice faced the stairs, blinking into the gloom. An undisturbed stillness greeted him. He waited, peering into the dark with his pulse racing. What if Mrs. Cleary had awakened? What if she followed him inside the cellar and saw what he was up to? What would he do? He stood by the door for a few more minutes. The silence held and nothing stirred.

  Breathing a sigh, Maurice turned to the cellar door. He inserted the key with care and disengaged the lock. Holding his breath, he pushed. Much to his relief, the hinges did not creak. He lit his small lamp and stepped inside.

  A narrow stone passage lay before him, unlit, and of such height, he was forced to crouch as he advanced. He reached a set of stone steps and began to descend. He wondered how Aaron Nightingale would have fared going down these stairs. According to portraits, the Englishman stood much taller than him.

  The steps continued deeper than Maurice could have guessed and after a few seconds, a tight feeling gripped his chest. In this narrow stairwell, closed in, and cast in darkness, a familiar fear stirred. His memories resurfaced, uninvited.

  Years ago, Therese, in one of her many fits of cruelty, would lock him inside the pantry.

  Maurice pressed a hand against the cold wall by his side and paused to catch his breath. Even now, the walls rang with the echoes of her threats. “Don’t ever think you’ll leave, Maurice. You’ll never come out! Never!”

  He remembered the nasty sound of her voice in the kitchen while his five-year-old self was locked in the wooden cabinet. There was clamouring at the door as he banged his fists against it. Out of breath, he whimpered, begging her to let him out.

  He would press his eye against the pantry door’s keyhole, and see a terrifying figure in a shapeless green dress. This woman could not have been his mother, for what mother inhabited such a loveless angular frame, what mother uttered words with such spite, or walked with those menacing, erratic movements.

  Maurice never knew what Therese would do next. Like a famished crone who feasted on little children, her face would surge before him, twisted and cruel. She was unpredictable. Her rage, nursed by ale and poverty, was overshadowed by more than one mean bone, and by the spite she held against all men.

  And now Therese stood there, facing the kitchen table with her back turned towards him. In her hand, she held a white chicken by its legs. Maurice saw her pick up a knife. The blade swiped the air, sparking a violent flutter of wings and flying white down. Therese held the dead bird and plucked its feathers. “I know you are watching, Maurice,” she warned. “Don’t let me catch you.”

  Even now, her voice echoed in the passage, ringing in his ears. Maurice paused halfway down to the cellar. He shut his eyes, letting the wave of horror pass through him. He told himself he was no longer in the pantry. He was in Alexandra Hall, faraway in England. He swept aside the horrid vision of his mother’s face and continued his descent.

  Before long, the steps ended. Beneath his feet, he felt the uneven ground. It was not tiled. It seemed worn and ancient, a relic of some old cottage, perhaps centuries old. He shone his small lamp across.

  A vaulted chamber of astounding proportions existed directly beneath the house. It was much larger than Maurice had suspected. He advanced, slowly at first, using his lamp to peer into this vast, humid cavern. The floor was bare, dirty and mottled with stains. The unpainted walls glistened with lichen and moss.

  The main piece of furniture was a large wooden bench on which rested a medical leather bag, metal implements and mysterious vials that had gathered dust.

  Behind this large table, against the wall, there towered a medieval medicine cabinet with dozens of tiny drawers. The gleam of golden letters on each compartment illuminated this monstrous piece of furniture that seemed to belong not here, in the English countryside, but in an oriental palace in some faraway land. That it had found itself here was remarkable.

  Unable to see any further through the darkness, Maurice shone his lamp to his left. Glass formations of various shapes and sizes crowded the numerous shelves across the left side wall but he could not discern what these were or what they contained. Seeing a small stool with a five-member candlestick, he worked with his own matches to light each candle. A brighter light soon filled the chamber.

  As he raised it high, it revealed a ghastly spectacle. There were rows and rows of shelves to his left, and stacked upon these, was the work of a mad man. Grotesque pieces of flesh, limbs, bone and all manner of creatures floated in sealed jars of various sizes and shapes. Maurice shuddered. In one of the jars, the dark, swollen digits of a severed hand floated in a greenish liquid.

  What evil had taken place here?

  Maurice retreated to the large table. He caught the glint of sharp implements which he’d not seen earlier. He pulled at the drawers, hoping to find work records, or maybe some written material. Instead he found a revolver. Maurice stared at the weapon.

  “What is all this, Aaron? What were you doing?” he whispered.

  He shone the candlestick to the right. Stacked against the far right wall, in uneven fashion, were numerous large wooden and metal boxes and trunks. Some were draped in sheets of calico and other wrapping material that had been discarded. Maurice neared the boxes.

  From their labelling, he learnt the mysterious origins of each parcel: Congo, Rhodesia, Gambia, Senegal, and the Gold Coast. There were boxes from as far away as Peking and Macau.

  What had been inside those boxes?

  He returned to the oriental cabinet, suddenly inspired. If he were to find written records, perhaps they might be stored in one of its larger compartments. He tugged at each brass knob, half-way down the cabinet. The first two drawers were filled with towels and medical tin dishes. The third drawer was locked. Maurice applied force and tore it open. The hinge snapped, revealing a pile of worn leather journals. One of these was dated from 1840 to 1847. His heart beating fast, Maurice buried this booklet beneath his robe, fastening his belt tight to keep the journal in place.

  As he lifted his eyes, he grew conscious of the broken latch on one of the medieval cabinet’s tiny doors. He tugged on it to see it open. Medicine pills. Maurice opened another compartment, then several others. They all contained pills, but while most compartments were neatly organised, reflecting Aaron’s concern for order, others were in disarray, almost as though someone had rummaged through the cabinet.

  Returning to the drawer with the broken latch, Maurice took note of the drug’s label. Moved by instinct, he seized one of the pills and slid it into his pocket.

  It was time to leave. He had no wish to remain down here. Maurice raised the candlestick and waved it to find the staircase. To his surprise, the light seemed to reflect upon a surface on the far right. Intrigued, Maurice crept closer.

  And then something strange happened. Maurice froze. His light had shone upon a plant.

  A plant? Here?

  Maurice inspected the tall green shoots hovering over pebbles. They waved, as though… He tried to reach the plant which bore an uncanny resemblance to algae. A hard surface obstructed his hand.

  Maurice stood back. It was algae. It seemed to live behind some sort of window.

  He ran his hand across, attempting to feel behind the glass. But the structure seemed to never end. The plant he had seen was enclosed behind a set of glass panels joined together by a wooden frame.

  The entire structure stood three feet from the ground and its glass panels reached up to his chin. Maurice calculated that it was over eight feet across. Inside this curious glass container, he could make out eerie rocky formations and thin plants immersed in a liquid. How much had Aaron spent on this odd piece of furniture? Whatever it was, it would have cost a hefty sum.

  A sudden rattling noise resonated in the chamber.

  Maurice whipped his head round. He blew out the candlestick and stared out, with only his small lamp still lit. The sound repeated itself.

  “Who’s there?” he asked.

  There it was again. It came from the back
of the cellar.

  Seizing the lamp he’d left on the stool earlier, he swept it to his right, searching.

  The far wall was blackened by a large shape. Maurice gasped. There it was! A shadow moved behind the mound of boxes. Now it shifted across. The movement was swift and now the shadow had disappeared.

  “Calista?” Her name had shot out of his lips. His entire being fought this idea, but he could no longer suppress what he felt.

  “Calista, are you there?” he repeated. His own words made no sense to him, yet he wished for an answer.

  And there was one. A violence shook the trunks. The boxes rattled with such force that two of them tumbled down with a crash. Maurice advanced, drawn to the noise despite his mounting dread. He wished to know. Was she there? Was she doing this?

  The rummaging redoubled. Pieces of wood, and dust flew above the stacks.

  The cellar went dark.

  The light! The light in his hand had waned. Maurice worked frantically to revive it, but something hard hit him, and he flinched. He gripped his shoulder. Before he could make sense of it, another metallic object – this time a broken latch – was flung at him. He doubled over in pain, his hand clasped over his burning eye.

  The light returned. Maurice looked up, stunned by what now flew in his direction. It was too late to dodge it. The small cage struck him so violently that he cried out.

  “Why?” he yelled. “Why are you doing this?”

  Maurice blinked. The blow to his temple had almost knocked him senseless. Blood trickled from a gash near his eye, blurring his vision. And yet, he could swear that something was there, right there, among the trunks.

  He shone his light across the distant shape, his head throbbing. He gasped. A shrouded and crouched form sat among the trunk stacks. It seemed to observe him. Its slow movements were odd, otherworldly.

  “Calista? Is that you?”

  As though it understood his words, the draped figure rose tall, then taller still, its shroud lifting and billowing in the dark. Maurice stepped back. The fabric danced, uncanny, furious.