Eleanor, Alice, and the Roosevelt Ghosts

by Dianne K. Salerni

  “Lie down!” I exclaim. “Put your feet up!” As if gravity will stop the baby from coming.

  But Aunt Bye obeys. “Please,” she mutters under her breath, hands pressed against her stomach. “You promised me. You promised me.”

  Who promised her? Is she speaking to the baby? To God? Or to the ghost that whispered her baby would be born healthy if she stayed in this house? “I’ll summon a doctor.” I swivel toward the door, but before I get there my eyes fall upon a teacup on her nightstand. Alarm bells ring in my head. “Aunt Bye, where did this tea come from?”

  She gazes at me with troubled eyes. “I don’t know. I dozed off, and it was here when I awoke. I assume Maisie brought it.”

  That’s possible. But I’m remembering the odd-looking sugar Ida poured into the punch bowl. And the questionable sugar I found the time the ghost offered me tea. It occurs to me that on the morning after the eruption, the diagnosis of Friendly was decided because the ghost offered the investigators cups of tea—and the sugar bowl.

  “Did you drink any of this?” My voice comes out shrill.

  “I—I’m not sure,” Aunt Bye stammers. “A sip or two, maybe.” She curls into herself, gripping her stomach and stiffening. “Ohhhh.”

  Is she really in labor? Or has she been poisoned? Ella Drummond killed her victims somehow, and the ghost has been showing us, over and over, these cups of tea. “Don’t touch any more of it.” I pick up the cup to take it away.

  A swarm of cockroaches crawls out of the cup and over my hand. I shriek and let go. China shatters on the ground, spraying tea everywhere. Of course, there are no cockroaches now.

  “Eleanor?” Aunt Bye looks so confused, so helpless. She tries to sit up.

  “Don’t get up. I’ll tell Maisie to fetch a doctor and be right back.” The bedroom door is closed, although I don’t remember shutting it, and when I reach for the handle, the cockroaches reappear. They cover the doorknob. Closing my eyes, I grab the knob anyway. I feel their twitchy legs crawling over my skin, but I don’t let go.

  The knob won’t turn.

  I twist as hard as I can using both hands, and it doesn’t budge. My eyes fly open. “Where’s the key to the door?”

  “I don’t think there is one. We never lock it. Eleanor, what’s happening?”

  I bang on the door with the heel of my hand. “The ghost locked us in!”

  “Why would it do that?”

  My poor aunt still thinks this ghost is a Friendly. “Maisie!” I yell, pounding on the door with both fists. “Anyone! Help! We need help!”

  Abandoning the locked door, I dash to one of the windows facing the front of the house and force the latches open. But the sash won’t go up, no matter how I yank on it. I look down, hoping to see the boys who were smoking on the front step earlier. To my surprise, guests are leaving the house in a stream, pulling on coats and hats as they go—and if I am not mistaken, that is Nellie Bly waving them out. I smack my hand on the glass and shout. No one hears or sees me.

  Thankfully, a muffled voice calls out from the second-floor hallway. “Aunt Bye!” Urgent knocking shakes the door.

  “Franklin?” Darting back across the room, I rattle the doorknob and shout, “Aunt Bye needs a doctor, but the ghost locked us in!”

  “Eleanor? Stand back from the door!” Franklin says something that sounds like “Will you help me, sir?” and I step back as the door shudders. An image comes to mind of my cousin throwing his shoulder against the door, like a hero in a novel, but the blows come from much lower. He’s kicking it, which is smarter and effective. The latch breaks, and the door flies open.

  Franklin stumbles into the room. With him is a tall gentleman I have never seen before. Aunt Bye clutches the bed-sheets to her chin and stares at them in distress. “She needs a doctor,” I repeat.

  “Get something warm on her,” Franklin says. “We’ll take her to a hospital.”

  Throwing open my aunt’s wardrobe, I search for something to put on. “What is happening downstairs?”

  “Miss Bly arrived with Mr. Tesla here, who says the house must be evacuated.”

  “Evacuated?” Aunt Bye repeats as I wrap a thick dressing gown around her and help to put her arms through the sleeves.

  I don’t know who this Mr. Tesla is, but I cannot argue with his good sense. “Can you stand?” I slip my arm around my aunt, and Franklin does the same on the other side. We get her to her feet and help her a few steps toward the door, where she doubles over, clasping her stomach. My eyes meet Franklin’s over her head, and the same thought flashes between us. If the baby comes tonight, it will not survive.

  Alice skids into the doorway. “Everyone is out except us.” She stares. “What’s wrong with Aunt Bye?”

  “We’ll take her to the hospital,” Franklin says again, trying to sound calm. “Everything will be all right.” As soon as our aunt’s spasm passes, Franklin and I get her moving again. Her feet are bare, I realize, and I glance around frantically, looking for shoes or slippers. Instead, I see the bedroom door swinging shut.

  “The door!”

  Mr. Tesla leaps forward and catches it. He firmly holds it open while Franklin and I half-drag, half-carry Aunt Bye out.

  Alice, in the hall, starts repeatedly stamping her feet.

  “What are you doing?” Franklin demands, but I guess even before Alice explains.

  “Cockroaches! Don’t you see them?”

  Suddenly we do. Legions of cockroaches, swarming toward us. Aunt Bye recoils and tries to pull away from us. “They’re an illusion!” Mr. Tesla says, his voice soft but urgent. “Keep moving!”

  Then an electric lamp mounted on the corridor wall flares and pops. The wallpaper blackens in a straight line to the next lamp, which, in turn, flares. The glass globe shatters, and the black line grows along the wall. With dread, I remember Grandmother’s dire prediction. Electric lights! Mark my words. Your aunt will be lucky if her entire family doesn’t burn up in an electrical fire!

  “It’s another illusion.” Alice sounds more hopeful than certain.

  It’s not an illusion. We smell the smoke.

  “On behalf of those of us at the back of the ranks,” says Franklin, “I urge you to keep moving.”

  When we reach the head of the staircase, however, Mr. Tesla throws out an arm in warning, bringing us to a stop. The stairs aren’t there. Instead, the first-floor foyer gapes ten feet below us.

  Mr. Tesla takes only a second to survey the situation. “That is another illusion. There’s no wreckage.” He turns to address Aunt Bye. “Madam, will you trust me?”

  My poor aunt, terrified and in pain, nods.

  Mr. Tesla replaces me at her side and lifts Aunt Bye into his arms. Franklin helps him secure his hold on her before the gentleman turns toward the nonexistent staircase. Alice and I clutch each other as he steps into the abyss.

  They do not pitch into space and fall. Mr. Tesla’s feet land firmly on the invisible treads of the stairs. Within seconds, he makes it to the first floor and carries Aunt Bye toward the door.

  Franklin steps to the head of the staircase, positioning himself in front of me and Alice. “We can do the same. I’ll lead you down.” He holds out his hand to me, and I take it. I reach for Alice, but she stares past us.

  “Franklin!” she warns.

  He looks. I look. The fire has followed the wiring across the stairwell ceiling to the chandelier hanging over the staircase. Bulbs flare, shattering glass. At the same moment, the ceiling around the fixture crumbles. The chandelier drops, its wires swinging it in an arc toward the second-floor landing like a wrecking ball. Toward us.

  “Run, girls!” Franklin shouts, pushing me back the way we came.

  We whirl around and pelt in retreat down the second-floor hallway. Alice sprints into the lead. I have barely started running when there’s a sickening thud behind
me. Something hits my back, carrying me forward and knocking me to the floor. Briefly, I’m pinned to the ground, but panic gives me the strength to crawl out from under the dead weight. After dragging my skirt free, I wriggle around to discover that the dead weight is Franklin.

  He’s sprawled on the hallway floor, unconscious, the back of his head bloodied from the blow of the chandelier, shards of glass everywhere.

  Around us, the walls burn.

  25

  ALICE IN THE FLAMES

  WHILE Eleanor hunches over Franklin, calling his name and blotting his bleeding head with the skirt of her dress, Alice surveys the staircase. It’s visible now but showered in broken glass, plaster, and pieces of the chandelier. They won’t be escaping in that direction. Which leaves the servants’ stairs.

  “There’s only one way out.” Alice hooks her hands under one of Franklin’s arms. Eleanor does the same, and together they manage to heave him a couple of feet down the hall. “Why is your beau such a big, heavy lunk?” Alice complains. Such is Eleanor’s distress that she doesn’t even bother to refute the word beau. “How are we going to get him down the stairs? Roll him like a sack of potatoes?”

  Luckily, Franklin chooses that moment to groan and flounder about. “Franklin!” Eleanor exclaims. “Can you hear me?”

  “More importantly,” interjects Alice, “can you stand?”

  He stands by degrees, getting onto his hands and knees and then dragging himself to his feet. He sways, one hand going to the back of his head and coming away bloody.

  “Lean on me.” Eleanor slips her shoulder under his arm and puts her own arm around his back. Alice helps guide him from behind. The air is thick with the acrid smell of burning paper and wires, and all three are coughing by the time the circular servants’ staircase opens in front of them. The stairwell is largely clear of smoke, but Davy is determined not to make things easy. The stairs swell and ebb as if each step is an ocean wave. Eleanor says, “We’ll close our eyes and feel our way down.”

  “Everything’s blurry to me anyway,” Franklin admits. “Let me go, Eleanor. I might fall and take you with me.”

  “No.” Eleanor grips him tightly. “We go together.”

  Alice lets them start down on their own. There’s no room for her beside them, and something else holds her back. Other than the people and the snake in her pocket, there is one irreplaceable thing in this house.

  The door to the room Teddy shares with Franklin is closed, and when Alice pushes it open, smoke rushes in, greedily expanding its reach.

  Her eyes sweep over the detritus of boys’ belongings with a sinking feeling. She doesn’t see her mother’s photograph at first. Holding both hands over her mouth and nose, she forces herself to look again, more slowly this time. And there it is, exactly where Teddy said he’d put it: on the table beside his bed. Alice grabs it and inserts it into the skirt pocket that Emily Spinach is not currently inhabiting. Then she whirls around.

  The ghost of Davy Drummond stands in the doorway, crisp and clear despite the smoke billowing into the room.

  It’s no taller than she, dressed in clothes from the 1850s, with dark hair and a thin, smirking face. Unlike that first glimpse she caught on the evening of the eruption, the ghost appears solid and human. But then, all its illusions seem real until the application of a little reality. Alice charges the door, meaning to pass right through the apparition.

  She gets no closer than three feet before colliding with a force that flings her backward so hard, her feet skid. The tail of her spine hits the floor, sending a bolt of pain through her body.

  Stay with us, Alice. Voiceless words tickle her ear. Stay and witness an end to our misery.

  The ghost’s image blurs. Suddenly taller, with broad shoulders, it stares at her through the eyes of a young man in his twenties. Another flicker, and it’s a girl in her late teens, thin and scared-looking. Alice blinks. The changes come so fast, she can barely catch them all. Another girl, at least two more boys, a man in the prime of his life. She’s seeing all the victims of Mrs. Drummond. This thing is like the rat king Teddy wrote about, a terrifying tangle of murderous vermin.

  Or, if Mr. Tesla is right, she’s seeing the memories imprinted on a house of horrors. But it’s Mr. Edison who is right, Alice thinks dizzily, struggling to get her legs underneath her. The origin of the ghost is irrelevant when it’s trying to kill her. This ghost doesn’t even have to wrap icy fingers around her throat to strangle the life out of her. It only has to keep her here, and the smoke will do the job.

  The poison in the air thickens, cloaking Franklin’s and Teddy’s scattered debris. Alice feels more alone than she’s ever been as coughs rack her body. She wrenches open the collar of her dress, as if that can help.

  Breathe in deeply, Alice. It will soon be over. Your mother’s last desire accomplished.

  The ghost’s taunts open wounds that haven’t had time to scab over, let alone heal. There’s no point in fighting. Davy will never let her out of this room. She’s going to die here.

  A vision in scarlet velvet sweeps into the doorway. There’s a flash of flying white crystals, floating down over Alice like ash, and then something wet and heavy smacks her full in the face.

  “Breathe through that!”

  The surprise—and the moisture—rejuvenates Alice enough to press the towel against her face. A strong hand grasps her arm and hauls her to her feet.

  “Don’t get any of that in your mouth,” Eleanor says, her voice muffled.

  Get any of what in my mouth? Alice lowers the towel enough to peek above it. Eleanor has dispersed the ghost by showering it with salt, the way Helen did in the Roosevelt house.

  They escape into the hallway. As Alice’s senses return, she sees that Eleanor has a towel wrapped around her own face, her eyes red and tearing above it. She drags Alice with one hand, and in her other, she carries the box of salt. When Davy Drummond flickers back together in the flame-filled hallway, once more blocking their path, Eleanor throws the whole box at it.

  There’s nothing left inside. The empty box lands on the floor at the feet of the ghost. Nevertheless, the apparition jumps backward in its unnatural, flickering fashion.

  The box is red, with large black letters printed across the front.

  It’s not salt, Alice realizes with surprise. It’s rat poison. That’s what Alice isn’t supposed to get into her mouth. Eleanor has been holding off Davy’s ghost with the poison that killed him.

  Which gives Alice an idea.

  “Drink your tea!” she croaks.

  For the first time, the ghost’s expression changes. The smirk vanishes.

  “Drink your tea, Davy Drummond!” Alice repeats. “Drink your tea for your mama!” The ghost flickers backward, growing more transparent as if hiding in the smoke.

  Alice’s heart clenches. Taunting Davy with the instrument of his death is too cruel to bear. Davy Drummond was an innocent victim, a child Teddy’s age. But this isn’t that boy. Just like that thing in my grandmother’s house wasn’t my mother.

  With grim determination, Alice drags Eleanor forward, toward the ghost and the servants’ staircase. “You lied about my mother. My mother loved me, but yours put you in the dirt for thirty dollars!” Her foot bumps the box of rat poison, and she kicks it straight into the center of the apparition.

  The creature flies apart like fireworks, disintegrating into sparks of dwindling light. Alice and Eleanor run to the stairs, which are now as clogged with smoke as the rest of the second floor. Clinging to each other, they feel their way down. Just when Alice thinks they’re free, the stairwell floods with cold. A shove in the center of her back sends her pitching forward.

  She slams into Eleanor, who loses her feet. Together they tumble. Alice’s head hits the wall, then her elbow, followed by her shoulder. The soft landing that she ultimately makes is due to her falling on Eleanor, w
ho grunts dully at the impact. The two of them lie at the foot of the stairs, too stunned to move, coughing weakly.

  Alice blinks, tears blurring her eyes. In spite of the fire above, frost spreads rapidly down the walls of the stairwell. Davy Drummond is coming to finish them off.

  Hands grab her. Lift her.

  Someone dumps her on the floor of the kitchen and rolls her over and over while she protests in small squeaks.

  Voices break through the spinning fog in her head. Teddy. George. Other boys from the party.

  “Get her outside!”

  “Her dress is still smoldering!”

  “Dump her in the snow, then.”

  “Have you got Eleanor?”

  Hefted into the air again, Alice reflects briefly on the indignity that—after her unkind words about Franklin—she is the one carted into the rapturously fresh night like a sack of potatoes.

  HOUSE OF FORMER POLICE COMMISSIONER’S SISTER GUTTED

  MISDIAGNOSED VENGEFDL BLAMED FOR ELECTRICAL FIRE MAYOR DEMANDS INQUIRY

  New York City, February 25, 1898—The fire department was called last night to the 100 block of East 21st Street, where the home of Mrs. William Cowles, née Anna Roosevelt, sister of former police commissioner Theodore Roosevelt, Jr., was engulfed by flames.

  The fire, at first attributed to faulty electrical wiring, has now come under suspicion of supernatural agency. Reports by witnesses claim that the fire began after physical manifestations of a ghost that had previously been diagnosed as Friendly. Mrs. Robert Seaman, better known as the intrepid ex-journalist Nellie Bly, reports that complaints had been made to the Supernatural Registry board about the ghost manifesting behaviors not consistent with that of a Friendly. “I consulted with supernatural expert and inventor Mr. Nikola Tesla, who, after examining the haunting with equipment of his own devising, agreed with me that the more likely designation for this specter was Vengeful.”

  MAYOR VAN WYCK