by Emma Beaven
Rose placed her foot gently on the first step, eyeing the banister. She couldn’t touch it. Just being near it was enough. Carefully she began the climb, listening in the stillness for unaccounted-for footsteps. The landing yawned darkly ahead of her, awaiting her. The steps creaked loudly about midway up, startling Rose so much that she nearly lost her balance. It had taken her eyes away from the space above for just enough time that someone could have entered it. She didn’t dare look up and acknowledge that area, the place where the owner of the footsteps must have stood, watching her. It felt newly empty, the way one could feel the echoes of visitors shortly after they’d departed, or the remnants of party guests hours after the festivities were over. The atmosphere was thick around her, suffocating.
“Violet,” Rose called without turning her head. “Will you open the curtains?”
Just as she thought, Violet was at the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll come right up, Miss Rose.”
Rose stood still. “Now, please.”
“I can’t get past you on the stairs.”
“Don’t be silly, Violet. Of course you can.” A slight tremor shook her shoulders. “I don’t feel well, and I’m afraid I’ll faint. I need you to open the curtains so I can feel the breeze.”
After Violet made it to the landing, Rose relaxed a tad. She pulled herself up the rest of the way and wandered over to the window. The sun glittered warmly through the glass while a light, sweet-scented breeze infused the stale air of the house. Rose laid a pale hand on the sill and breathed deeply. By craning her head out the window just a bit, she could see the McCanns’ house. Only flower bushes and trees populated the yard, much to her dismay. Sighing softly to herself, she thought back to her short interaction with Henry, her fear melting away in the softness of the comfortable, mundane scene outside.
I’ve got to tell Maggie, she thought, twisting her fingers in anticipation of her sister’s reaction.
Suddenly realizing that she still wore the filthy grass-stained dress she’d fallen in, Rose darted toward her bedroom door. She turned and peered down the hallway briefly, but it appeared Violet had disappeared. The sunlight didn’t stretch to the bedroom doorway, and her nerves bloomed once more, her skin prickling as she contemplated turning the knob.
Just as she reached for it, the door swung open. Rose stifled a squeal as she realized it was only Maggie. Her sister peered at her oddly. “I had a dream about you.”
Rose exhaled loudly. “Oh.”
“Are you panting?” Maggie cocked her head and watched Rose. “In my dream, you were running.”
“No. And what dream? I wasn’t running. I had… a fall.” Rose pushed past her sister and sat on the bed. “So, what happened?”
“What happened when? Are you suggesting that you’d enjoy a recounting of my dream about you?” Maggie asked. “Oh God, Rose, what happened to your dress?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Rose said. “Help me change and tell me about your dream or whatever.”
“Fine.” Maggie gestured for Rose to stand. “Well, in my dream, you and I were sitting in the parlor, and we were wearing these lovely pink evening dresses.” Maggie moved toward the wardrobe. “Anyway, I think we were having tea or something like that. Suddenly, you said to me, ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Maggie,’ and then you turned your head toward the connecting door to the sitting room. There was someone sitting on the sofa with a blanket over their head. I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or woman.”
Rose shuddered. “I don’t want to hear more.”
“Wait, wait, it gets better,” Maggie said, smiling foolishly. “So I said to you, ‘Let me come and sit with you,’ you know, because of course I was afraid. So I sat down beside you and took your hand, the whole time keeping my eyes on this thing in the sitting room.”
“Please, Maggie!” Rose snapped. “I asked you to stop.”
“You’ll like it, Rose, I’m telling you,” Maggie responded. She flashed Rose another smile before slamming the wardrobe door shut. “Well, I was pretty frightened at that point, and I was thinking I was going to get up and leave. You must have sensed it, for you snatched my skirt and said, ‘Don’t go. It’s been so long. Don’t you want to see?’ Well, I didn’t, I can tell you that, but you ran to the doors and threw them open. You passed into the sitting room and shut the door between us. The person beneath the blanket stood up, and, Rose, I wanted to scream. Their blanket fell off, and guess what, Rose. Just guess!”
Rose shook her head. Her skin felt as if it were crawling with ants.
“It was Henry, Rose. It was Henry! I think it was a prophetic dream; I really do. You’re going to marry him, Rose. I know it!”
Rose watched Maggie’s frantic movements suspiciously. Would her sister really be pleased with that? It didn’t make sense; Maggie surely wanted him for herself.
Rose wondered briefly if Maggie had seen her and Henry through the window. It would have looked wildly improper, even if she had fallen off the porch. And what a horrible dream! Rose shuddered just thinking of the moving, writhing figure Maggie had described. She flinched as her sister neared her, her arms draped with clean clothes.
“Well? Aren’t you going to put it on? Or are you still reeling from my dream?”
“Oh please, Maggie, there aren’t any prophetic dreams.” Rose’s throat went dry as she said it, causing her to spit out the last word. “And besides, it sounded terrifying.”
Maggie nodded. “Oh, it was.”
Sighing in exasperation, Rose began to dress. “I think I could use a shawl.” She hesitated for a moment. “Do you think you could get me one?”
“Of course.” Maggie moved back across the room. “He needs to move it today,” she muttered softly.
Fifteen
That evening, the wardrobe remained defiant, crouching like a cornered animal, both doors slightly open in an awkward snarl. Rose was drunk that night after dinner, having partaken more than usual to quell her anxiety, and she decided not to care, not to bother about it. She felt free of the paralyzing fear she normally carried into the night, and this time as she stood at the doorway, she stared down her enemy, giggling all the while. Rose had better things to worry about anyway. Soon, she hoped, Henry would leave his card, and soon after he would come for a visit, ostensibly to see her. The wardrobe couldn’t hurt her, only her own mind, her own fears that controlled her each night. It was easy to think this way now, warm with alcohol and false courage.
Rose lay in bed in her shift, the lamp beside the bed still lit. That night she ignored the bouncing shadows as she waited for Maggie. In fact, Rose thought it was rather strange that Maggie was not yet in bed. Her sister, for all intents and purposes, had disappeared. Making the situation even stranger was that Maggie’s dress lay in a pale heap on the floor, her stockings poking out from underneath, which meant she had wandered off in her shift. She must have been in the house considering how she was dressed; however, Rose had explored downstairs and failed to find evidence of her sister.
Snuggling down in the blankets, Rose considered putting the light out. She was feeling just brave enough to extinguish it, but as she placed her hand on the small dial, she decided to simply turn the light down rather than out. She watched the flame lower in the glass chimney, the oil rocking gently inside the red glass. The far corner of the room swam heavily in shadows as Rose lowered herself back into the bed. Maggie would be back soon; she’d have to be. Rose listened carefully for her light footsteps but could only hear the rustling of the trees outside as a gentle breeze shook the leaves and flowers. The chirping of the cicadas drifted into her ears beneath the myriad rustlings and tiny creaks, and she tried to focus on the sweet, eerie song as she closed her eyes. She’d not been by herself in the room for some time, and despite the alcohol, she was beginning to feel nervous again.
The soft, normal sounds began to lull her to sleep, allowing her mind to drift far away from the room in which she, the lone occupant, lay exposed to all that crept
in the night. Rose wanted to sleep so badly; she was so tired from the nights she kept vigil, waiting for the insidious creak of the wardrobe door. That night she was too tired to be afraid.
As she lay on the cusp of a dream of another life, her mind registered, in some vague unimportant corner, the whisper of the door across the bare boards and quick, scampering steps to the bed. Some part of her tried to force her eyes to open, to alert her waking self of the disturbance, but that night she ignored it.
Sixteen
In Rose’s dream, she was in the house before the bad thing happened. She knew this because Sarah was sitting in front of her. Sarah was staring at her oddly, her dull green eyes searching Rose’s own desperately, trying to communicate without a voice. For some reason, that made Rose angry. She wasn’t sure why she got up, adjusting her perfect Indian muslin with the eyelet lace around the hem before walking over and snatching Sarah’s arm. The rage flowed through her as she squeezed the delicate bones, her eyes locked on Sarah’s.
“Let me sleep,” Rose’s dream self hissed. “I don’t want to hear it anymore.”
Sarah looked bewildered at first, but then her eyes slowly changed, the lids falling half past center, her pale pink lips turning down slightly, her skin creasing. “Why do you pretend, Rose? Why do you keep pretending you’re asleep?” Sarah twisted her neck to the side, her face growing ugly with anger. “I know you’re not asleep.” She got up, ripping her hand from Rose’s grasp and pressing her face close to Rose’s own. “You’ve never been asleep. I know when you’re awake. I can hear you in my head.” Sarah slammed her index finger into her forehead and tapped several times. “I hear it all.”
Rose broke free and backed away from her stepsister, fear trickling like freezing water down her spine. She had an urge to run, but her feet seemed mired in quicksand. She watched in horror as Sarah sashayed up to her, pressing herself uncomfortably close against Rose. “Are you going to ask me?” she whispered in the dry, corn-husked voice Cornelia had used at the party. “Well? Ask!”
“I-I…,” Rose stuttered, terror freezing her. Her eyes darted wildly around the room, but it appeared that both the doors and windows had disappeared.
Suddenly she realized Sarah was bleeding. The front of her white dress was soaked a deep, blackish-red, and little drips were steadily hitting the oriental rug on the floor.
“You knew, Rose. What are you looking at?”
Rose watched as Sarah’s skin cracked, more blood beginning to mat Sarah’s hair, causing pieces of it to jut from her head in ugly clumps. Her eyes slowly glazed over as she snapped her head hard to the side, her hands pulling her bloody nightgown away from her body.
“If you won’t ask now, you’ll ask later,” Sarah hissed, her body jerking spastically. “I’ll be waiting for you in the wardrobe when the time comes.”
Seventeen
Rose awoke in a hot sweat, her breathing coming hard and heavy. She looked around the room, taking in the familiar surroundings, whispering to herself that she was all right, that she was in her bedroom. She turned to her right side, half afraid of what she might see, but it was only Maggie, curled on her side, her blonde hair falling across the pillow in stiff braids.
Rose touched Maggie’s hair lightly, making sure she was really there. Maggie snorted loudly and rolled over, her elbow smacking into Rose’s jaw. Rose smiled as she rubbed the sore spot. Maggie was here; everything was fine.
The wardrobe seemed to flicker in the distance, daring Rose to look. The air was thick and wet again, falling like sopping blankets over Rose’s sweating form. She poked Maggie, pressing a finger hard into her cheek. “Come on,” she whispered. “Wake up.”
Maggie mumbled something and rolled back over, shoving the blanket away from her shift, leaving her bare legs exposed. The light filtering into the bedroom was exceedingly bright, making the dust sparkle. Rose picked her way to the side window and threw back the curtains. The sky was a perfect blue with soft wisps of clouds melting near the bright sun. It was a gorgeous day, bright and beautiful and a world away from the vicious, terrifying nightmare that had gripped Rose during the night.
She held an arm out the window, letting the sun caress her already overheated skin. The trees drooped tiredly over the flowers, leaves and twigs occasionally dropping into the deep green grass below. She could see the marble-lined pond beckoning her with its cool shaded waters. How perfect would it be if Henry came today? Rose smiled, imagining Henry walking purposefully up the drive, card in hand. If only today could just be a good day, free of the wardrobe and the bad dreams.
The wait for breakfast that morning was excruciatingly long and exhausting. Rose had to wait for her sister to get her dress, of course, and the random pokings and proddings Rose visited on her sister did little to wake her. When Maggie finally awoke, she seemed cranky and irritable despite the promise of the brilliant day before them. First, she refused to help Rose, and when finally she acquiesced, she did so grudgingly.
It was difficult to dress that day because of the heat, but Rose was anxious. She scrambled into her light dress and begged Maggie to pull a nice hat out of the wardrobe for her. Even if Henry didn’t come, she’d go outside and read; at least she could enjoy the day and rid herself of the stifling, looming dark of the house for a little while.
Anticipation ran through Rose as she ate quickly, sometimes glancing at Maggie, who kept looking at her oddly. Finally, Rose threw her napkin on the table and looked Maggie in the eye. “What?”
“Nothing,” Maggie said, throwing her own napkin on the table and pushing her chair out. “You look a little peaked, that’s all.”
The curtains were drawn over the large windows, leaving the room dim and shadowed. Maggie turned toward the pale green silk of the curtains and pulled them back slightly. She pushed herself up on her heels, pressing her face close to the glass as if she were searching for someone.
“Did I offend you?”
“No.” Maggie turned from the window, briefly trailing her fingers over the curtain before turning toward the hallway.
“Do you want to come outside with me?” Rose asked. “I think I’ll go read by the pond.”
“Maybe later.” Maggie gazed despondently down the hallway and slowly edged past Rose into the dark corridor leading to the parlor.
“Maggie?” Rose watched her disappear into the doorway, leaving shadows lying in her wake. She wasn’t sure what to think of this change in her sister. Maggie was always much happier than Rose, no matter what. Still, she couldn’t focus her mind on Maggie for long as other, more exciting thoughts continuously intruded.
Rose ran slightly sweaty hands over her skirt and skipped over to her father’s study to search for something to read. She had grown tired of the ladies’ novels she’d been reading. It was always the same thing over and over. So unrealistic, these young ladies’ lives. And it was impossible to live up to their standards, anyway. Instead, she wanted to choose something more realistic today. Maybe a history of ancient Rome. She knew her father had something on that topic. He’d inherited numerous books from an uncle who’d died a few years ago, and he’d kept them all despite their subject matter. And of course, he knew his eldest daughter liked to read.
Rose stared at the shelves for some time, contemplating the titles spread before her. There was nothing in particular she was yearning to read, and she was torn between indulging in that which her fantasies laid plain in her mind and the enrichment of her brain. Perhaps no book at all would be best; then she could just stare into the woods, at the perfect flowers, contemplating it all.
She ran her hands across the dusty, torn covers, wondering what to do. Around her, silence filled the air. The silence she dreaded. Rose cocked her head, listening carefully while cursing herself for doing so. Finally, she flung her hand up blindly, yanked a book off the shelf, and fled outside, far away from the dreary, dusty house filled with shadows and quiet footsteps.
Eighteen
Beneath the magnolia tr
ee, in the overwhelming scent of its gigantic blooms, Rose rested. The book lay unopened on her lap, her fingers idly flipping at the cover. It was nice outside, safe, and deliciously shady. There was no invisible wickedness, grown ugly in hate, stalking her here.
She stood up after a while, inhaling the overripe fragrance before selecting a low-hanging blossom and plucking it. It wasn’t like the roses or irises she normally tore from their stems; its stalk was hard and woody, as if she’d ripped off a finger rather than plucked a hair. Still, it calmed her. The scent infected every piece of her, overtaking her on that wickedly hot summer day. She pressed her face deep into the bloom, melting within it.
This is certainly bliss, Rose thought as she examined the white petals. If she could only sleep there in the perfect shade of the magnolia, surely she would sleep soundly, bathed in its heavenly scent. Certainly nothing bad could enter here, in her perfect sanctuary.
Rose opened her book, but her mind immediately faded away from the words. She was so close; she could feel it. Or rather, he was close. And maybe, if she was awfully lucky, she’d be out of here soon, away from her nightmares. Her dreams were getting worse—much worse. And if they continued, well, she might go out of her mind—if she hadn’t already.
Dead leaves cracked behind her, and Rose jumped, heart hammering before she saw two squirrels scrounging about the debris. She pulled herself up, snatching her book off the ground.
Where is Maggie? Why didn’t she come out? Rose pondered as she picked her way into the yard and crossed to the west side of the house so she could pretend to do idle things while hopefully attracting the attention of her neighbor. She walked to the edge of the woods again to pick at the perfect purple irises yawning wide in the sun. At the fringe of the woods and the yard, the climate shifted gently, the coolness in the dark of the trees caressing her sticky, sweating hands. The buzz of insects was loud, nearly overwhelming, and most of all, distracting.
