Where the Briars Sleep

by Emma Beaven

  “I wonder if anyone noticed what went on today,” Maggie said abruptly, shattering the silence like smashed glass.

  Mariotta turned toward Maggie, head cocked with interest; however, their father continued to shovel food in his mouth as if nothing had been said.

  “Daddy?” Maggie called.

  Rose let her fork clatter to the plate and scowled at Maggie. “I’m sorry, but how long do we have to wait for you to gather your audience? I think I’d really prefer to go retire to the sitting room.”

  Maggie turned angrily toward Rose for a second and then looked back at her father. “Daddy? I think you’ll want to hear this.”

  Their father finally looked up wearily. His face was drawn and pale, as if he’d grown ill, and he glanced at Rose sadly for a moment, nodding at her slightly. “What is it?”

  “I just thought you should know that it appears that our good neighbor Mr. McCann has an interest in our dear Rose.”

  Their father gazed at Maggie as if she’d slapped him. Maggie turned, confused, toward Rose, who shrugged. Rose tried a tentative smile, but Father’s face remained unchanged. They sat like that for a moment before he put his head back down and began shoveling food into his mouth.

  “So, no one cares?” Maggie asked, indignant.

  “You’re so jealous,” Rose hissed softly and turned back to her plate.

  “I’m going to my room,” Maggie said loudly, throwing her napkin onto her plate. She shoved her chair back, the legs screaming on the wood floor, and marched out of the dining room.

  Thirty-Seven

  Maggie slept in the spare room that night, unable to overcome her furor, and so Rose had no choice but to sleep alone. Tired though she was, sleep would not come. She tried to ride the thrill of the day through the night to no avail. No matter how the tide might have turned, she was still here for the time being. Slowly she tried to blot out the creeping thoughts as she imagined Henry asking to marry her, of the two of them moving away to start their own life.

  The grandfather clock in the parlor chimed eleven times, the sound of it echoing throughout the entire house. Rose wondered how she could possibly sleep through the sound so frequently.

  When the darkness was hot to the point of being stifling, but she didn’t dare get up to check the window now that the light was out. Her shift felt thick and sticky in the darkness, and she knew it was inevitable that she’d have to pull the blanket down.

  Rose slowly placed her fingers on the outside of the blanket. It would be cooler if she just stuck her foot out. She pondered the prospect of that while she squinted in the heavy darkness. Right now, Maggie was sleeping in the room with the wardrobe. Probably sleeping soundly too. Surely nothing would extricate itself from that room to go to the trouble of stalking Rose while Maggie lay so vulnerable in front of it.

  Rose placed both her arms on top of the blanket and plopped her head back down, forcing her eyes closed. There was no use fretting, after all; it could happen whether she was watching or not.

  She tried once more to concentrate on Henry and open the floodgates for all her romantic inclinations. Slowly, a smile spread across her face, and she drifted.

  Thirty-Eight

  “Rose, wake up!”

  Rose mumbled in her sleep, her hand coming up to swat at the empty side of the bed.

  “I said wake up!”

  And suddenly Rose was awake as it registered in her mind that the gravelly hiss did not belong to her sister. The sweat on her body froze on her skin as her breath caught in her throat. She tried to scream, to bring her father running, but only a short whimper issued from her nearly paralyzed throat.

  “I have something that must be done tonight.”

  Rose finally opened her eyes, afraid that by now, Sarah’s decayed countenance would nearly be pressed up against her own. Instead, she saw her long-dead stepsister standing at the foot of the bed, gesturing to her. She was dressed, as in life, in an ugly mustard yellow gown with floral embroidery. A long gold ribbon was wound about her bun and drifted down her back, giving her the illusion of being veiled.

  “Get up.”

  Rose choked hard, her entire body spasming. She told herself it was a dream, her mind screaming at her to just wake up. If she could just wake up, it would surely be morning, and the sun would banish this hellish apparition from her sight.

  “You know what he did, Rose. And now you will take this revenge for me.”

  Rose shook her head vigorously, her arms suddenly clutched about her.

  “If you won’t do this, Rose, I will take it through you. And you don’t want that.”

  “P-Please, please, go away.”

  “Have it your way.”

  As Rose stared, unable to move, Sarah moved lightly toward her. Her stepsister raised a hand, her skin glistening white like snow in the moonlight, and placed it on Rose’s wrist. Sarah’s dark, hollow eyes fastened on Rose’s as she pulled Rose in for an embrace.

  Pain bloomed in her gut almost immediately, like someone had hollowed her insides out and left a gaping, gory hole within her. Her muscles all ached, and as she reached down to touch her stomach, she saw that her hands were covered in the blood that soaked her dress, creating horrible slopping sounds as she moved.

  The light was cold and pale, like early morning, and a terrible chill rode up her bare feet and beneath her dress to cool the mess that was drying on her thighs. Her hand came up, and she saw she was holding a long thin knife from the kitchen. Rage poured over her as the shadow of a memory caressed her dying mind.

  More blood spilled down her dress as Rose turned abruptly, cocking her head and listening. They were sleeping, all of them. While they left her bleeding, dying. Sleeping so easily as she tried in vain to stop her life from pulsing out of her while more and more blood soaked her, even as the first drops that fell dried and blackened on her pale skin.

  She gnashed her teeth and paused outside the door across from the stairwell leading upstairs. In time, she thought. She pushed ahead, fighting back against the waves of pain and the horrid slipping feeling coming from her insides.

  Grasping the handle of the door directly beside her, Rose quietly pushed it open, the knife behind her back.

  Now.

  Thirty-Nine

  John Shedd, asleep alone in his bed—as had been his habit for two years now—did not wake when the door creaked open, and an eye and the side of a face edged into the opening, the eye smoldering with rage as it stared directly at him. The mouth worked suddenly, the jaw moving back and forth as if the face was not used to this particular piece of itself. Two fingers wrapped themselves around the edge of the door, and the face slid entirely inside, quickly followed by the rest of the body, dressed only in a pale white shift.

  It sidled closer to the bed, its body turned completely sideways, with the eyes glued to the object of its ire. The feet barely left the floor, and the shuffling, like dead leaves being scattered by the wind, finally fully woke John, just as the figure lurched and leapt upon him with a horrifying screech.

  Its hand was raised high overhead, the knife grasped firmly.

  Despite his terror, John reacted quickly, and he grasped the thin, cold wrist of the girl as her arm plunged downward.

  The girl was stronger than any girl should have been, and he knew that he was about to die. The girl’s hair hung over her face, glinting red in the moonlight, her screams blending with his own. Fighting every instinct within him, he released his right hand and swept the long unruly hair out of her face.

  “Rose!” he shrieked.

  Her eyes now moved back and forth as if dreaming, and she let free another howl from her cracked lips as the knife bobbed up and down.

  “Get off me!”

  But Rose planted her knees on either side of her father, her hand holding tightly to the knife’s hilt. John balled his fist and hit her hard in the face.

  Rose rocketed back and fell, landing on all fours on the bed. For a moment, her eyes stopped moving, an
d just before Violet burst through the door, she glared directly at her father. “I’ll see both of you again,” she hissed and dropped the knife to the floor.

  John gripped his daughter’s arms and watched as her eyes flew wide. Christopher and Rachel came running in, and shock and horror filled their eyes as they stared at the strange tableau in front of them.

  Christopher, in the front of the small group, began working his mouth, searching for words, before both Rachel and Violet pushed their way past him.

  John’s ears were ringing, and somewhere in the din, he could hear Maggie screaming questions at him.

  “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I… she…,” he began and then pointed toward the knife.

  Rose’s eyes rolled back in her head, and vaguely he noted that someone was crying hysterically. Somewhere, faintly, he heard “How could you do this?”

  “I didn’t!” he protested, his finger punching the air as he released Rose to point toward the knife. The servants stared at him in abject fright.

  One hollow shriek shook the air, and Rose collapsed against his chest.

  John began shaking his daughter. “Rose! Rose!”

  Forty

  The noise rushed in on Rose like the grating shriek of a tornado. Voices muttered everywhere around her, and someone reached for her, trying to pick her up. She tried to fight back, flailing her arms in front of her face, but she felt weak. Her arms limp.

  She slowly realized she was in her father’s room, the servants and her sister crowded around her, Violet tried to pluck her up while she argued with Rachel. Her father still lay on the bed, one hand flung out, finger pointing, mouth agape. Christopher was trying to help him up. Father offered neither help nor resistance.

  “What happened?” Rose asked, and suddenly all eyes were upon her.

  Her father sat up quickly, pulling his knees against his chest. Rose reached for him, but he ducked away, dread glinting in his eyes.

  “Well, what are you going to do?” Maggie asked, her voice shrill with panic.

  Rose jerked herself up. “What? What’s going on? What are you all doing here?”

  “Be careful,” her father said, slowly slipping off the bed.

  “Well?” Maggie asked again. “She was sleepwalking.”

  “We’d better give her some laudanum for now.”

  “I don’t need anything!” Rose cried. “I just want to sleep.” She began to sob, trying to scurry out of the room, but to no avail.

  “I don’t think you should do that,” Maggie said, standing protectively in front of her sister. “She’s not sick.”

  “Tincture of laudanum,” her father whispered.

  “She’s not sick or hurt,” Maggie repeated. “Let me talk to her.”

  Rachel hurried out, and Father turned his attention to the remaining servants. “Take her to her bed and keep her there.”

  “Hey!” Rose shouted, her arm coming up to snake around her sister’s leg. “I want to go to bed. Please just stop! I don’t understand what’s going on.”

  Feeling nauseous, she tried to keep herself attached to Maggie, who continued to protest.

  Rachel returned with mumbled apologies and began pulling Rose away. As she was half pulled, half carried down the hallway, a memory tried to surface within Rose, and her nausea increased as an intense pain bloomed in her stomach.

  “You’ll be better soon,” Rachel said, seeming to sense her discomfort.

  “I had a bad dream,” Rose whispered as Rachel pushed open the door to her bedroom. “Just a bad dream.”

  “If you say so, Miss Rose.”

  “What does that mean?” Rose asked angrily, regaining some of her strength as she was pulled onto her bed. Violet hovered in the doorway, her hands wound up in her dress.

  “There’s sleeping dreams and then there’s waking dreams,” Rachel said softly. “And then there’s talking in your sleep.”

  Rose sank into her bed, her eyes on the servants. “I didn’t hurt Daddy.”

  “I got to get your medicine.”

  Rose saw Violet flinch as Rachel turned and walked past her, giving her a long look as she went.

  “Violet?” Rose asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Violet shook her head, her eyes on the ground. “Just rest now, Miss Rose.”

  Rose shut her eyes, trying to fight the pain in her stomach. Her head was starting to hurt again, and a small creeping fear was working its way up her spine. She heard multiple footsteps and then her sister’s voice speaking quietly to one of the servants.

  She opened her eyes as the footsteps approached her bed.

  “Rose, are you hurting?”

  “My stomach hurts,” Rose responded meekly.

  Maggie pressed a damp hand to her sister’s forehead and then leaned down close to her ear. “What happened?”

  “I was dreaming,” Rose said slowly.

  Maggie sighed. “I don’t know what to do, Rose. I really don’t. We’ll have to sort this out in the morning.”

  “All right, Maggie,” Rose said as Rachel approached, the tincture of laudanum ready.

  “Miss Rose?” Rachel asked. “Your father asked that you take it.”

  “All right, then, Rachel. I’ll do what Daddy says.”

  Rose accepted the tincture and lay back in her bed, waiting for it to take effect, to take away her pain.

  Before she fell asleep, just as the euphoria from the medicine descended upon her mind, she felt a hand, wet and cold on her arm. Rose tried to look, but her eyes refused to open. A whisper seemed to float through the air, but she was unable to discern what it said.

  Seconds later, she fell asleep.

  Forty-One

  Maggie couldn’t sleep. She had wandered back into her room when Rachel promised to stay with Rose until she fell asleep, but worry crowded her mind and left her restless.

  She had come in late, her father’s screams failing to rouse her at first as they tried to hide within her dreams. Eventually she’d snapped fully awake, and when she’d heard the horrible noise and the commotion, her heart had sunk. She knew it had to do with Rose.

  Dawn was breaking, bleeding across the sky like an infected wound. The earliest rays were already sneaking through the window glass and splashing patches of light on the walls. Maggie decided she might as well get up and check on Rose, as there was no way she’d fall asleep now.

  Maggie fished around for a clean shift and pulled a fresh muslin dress over her head. She left her hair tangled and messy, running a quick hand along the disheveled braid before opening the door and running barefoot into the hallway.

  The corridor was still dark, having only one window at the front. Only silence greeted her as she hurried toward the bedroom she shared with Rose.

  The light pooled just below the front window, with a shaft appearing to point directly toward the door. Maggie paused for a moment, staring at the odd puddle of light before pressing her hand against the doorknob. Before turning the knob, she placed her ear against the door. More silence.

  Maggie stepped into the room. Rachel slept in a chair propped near the windows, and Rose lay on the bed, eyes shut. She looked surprisingly peaceful. The stress that had been causing lines to burrow into Rose’s face seemed to have dissipated.

  Maggie smiled and knelt down beside the bed. “Rose,” she whispered softly.

  Maggie glanced back at Rachel’s sleeping form for a moment, then turned back to her sister. “Aren’t you hungry? I can bring you something if you want, but you might feel better if you try to get up.”

  She waited for a moment, but Rose remained still.

  “Come on, Rose.” She poked Rose’s arm. Her skin felt strangely clammy. Her head rocked to the side as Maggie pressed harder, yet she didn’t wake.

  The first tentacles of panic stirred in the pit of her stomach. “Rose,” she said, this time louder. “Wake up.” She waited for an agonizing moment and then grabbed her sister’s arms. “Wake up!”

  Rachel shifted in her ch
air. “Miss Maggie?”

  Maggie ignored her and shook Rose again, harder this time, hysteria tingeing her voice. “Rose! Rose!”

  “Miss Maggie, what’s wrong?”

  Maggie turned to her, dragging Rose half off the bed. “She’s dead!” she screamed. “Oh God, Rose is dead! Dead! Oh God!”

  Maggie collapsed, her sister’s body falling with a thump on top of her. She pulled Rose’s head up, cradling it as she wept uncontrollably.

  A door opened in the hallway, and heavy footsteps approached the room. “Rose?” Maggie heard Father say, his voice soft and weak.

  Maggie snapped her head around, her breath heavy as she took in her father’s figure. “You killed her. You killed my sister! You did it!”

  He took a shuddering step back, his body trembling as he shook his head from side to side. “That’s not possible. She’s just sick.”

  Maggie gently laid Rose’s head on the floor. “You killed her,” she hissed. “You tried to hurt her, and then you killed her!”

  “No!” her father said, horror coloring his eyes. “She attacked me in my sleep. The laudanum—”

  Her father stood over Rose’s prone body and began to cry.

  “You did it!” Maggie screamed and then fled.

  Rachel slipped silently past him and out the door. As she passed the spare room to descend to the first floor, she heard the wardrobe door creak.

  Forty-Two

  Maggie sat in the parlor stiffly, draped in heavy mourning clothing. Rose was laid out in front of her, and Maggie let her eyes wander past her sister in the dim light to travel about the oppressive room. The moon in the grandfather clock’s face leered at her, its smile wicked, as if it was aware of what went on in front of it.

  The parlor door creaked open, and Mariotta slipped inside. She sat in one of the wing chairs and stared hard at Rose. Maggie’s skin itched as she saw what looked like a sneer grace Mariotta’s face. For just a brief second, before her lips returned to a straight, tight line. Maggie tried to force her eyes away, to keep them focused, but her concentration was broken. “You don’t need to be here,” Maggie said flatly.