by Emma Beaven
Alone, staring dissolutely at the area she once shared with her sister, the one person who had always been with her, her confidante, her closest friend, Maggie wished she were dead. The house felt empty despite the rustling of servants moving about the mourning-draped home. And here, in the room they had shared for so many years, the ache of her loss was most palpable. How could she lie down tonight in the sheets that still smelled of her sister’s rose water? Who would sort through her clothes, strands of her hair still clinging to the fibers?
The clock in the parlor began to ring the hour in, its sullen chimes echoing in Maggie’s head. A sigh issued from her dry lips as she rose lethargically, eyeing the empty bed. Just as she found the will to move her body over to the bed to try to sleep, she heard a soft creak outside the bedroom door, like that of a sneaking footstep.
Maggie’s head shot up, her eyes glued to the door. Certainly it was just a servant creeping about so as not to wake her. Surely it must be.
She shuffled quietly over to the door and pressed her ear against it, listening for the soft hiss of breath that would alert her to another’s presence.
At first, she heard nothing. Then, just as she was putting her hand to the knob, she heard the faintest whisper, like that of the wind passing gently through the trees. Maggie swallowed hard. She had not covered the mirror on the dresser, and now, as she glanced quickly at it, a slow chill was starting to creep along her skin.
A rustle again, like the skirt of a dress brushing the door, reached Maggie’s ears. She backed up slightly. Another rustle.
Maggie choked down the pooling saliva in her mouth. She pressed her hand back against the door and, with trepidation, placed her ear back against the wood. The thunder boomed loudly outside, and she jumped nearly a foot from the door, her breathing heavy. The wind howled through her windows and rustled her curtains.
Maggie stared for a moment and then giggled. It was just the curtains on the window at the front of the hall. That was all, just the curtains blowing in the wind.
Still she hesitated. The wind continued to blow, but now she was sure the sound she heard in the hallway was not the same as the sound of her own curtains. Maggie steeled herself and strode deliberately toward the door. She wasn’t going to go mad like Rose, thinking there were things creeping about the hallways that no one else could see.
She flung open the door, her breathing loud in her ears. The hallway was completely empty; however, a lamp still burned on top of the hulking bookshelf that dominated the space. Its flame flickered as wind continued to pour through the open window.
“Dammit,” Maggie said softly. She walked a few paces down the hallway and stared down the dark stairway. “What am I doing?”
She went to turn, to once again attempt to retire for the night, when the pounding started on the front door.
Forty-Seven
John Shedd flinched the second the knocking began. He was in his study, one hand grasping a glass of brandy, the other holding a pen. Both were shaking. The wind was still battering the trees outside, flinging discarded raindrops against the windows. The rot of fallen petals and dead vegetation had seeped through the window, invading his space.
The pounding sounded again. John rose slowly, his glass still grasped tightly in his hand. He shuffled toward the door leading to the hallway like a man afflicted and peeped out into the hallway. The servants were darting about and murmuring, most likely shocked that someone would come knocking at this hour, during a time of mourning.
John, however, stared dully at the front door, awaiting what would come. His legs trembled so hard he dared not take another step lest he fall. The brandy had not steeled his nerves as he had hoped, and now the door, with its dark green paint, stared ominously back at him.
A third knock sounded. John turned quickly, waiting for Christopher to pop out of the shadows. The hall had become silent; the light spilling from his study had turned pale and sickly.
“Well?” he called, his voice cracking. “Is anyone going to see who’s knocking so late?”
Christopher appeared suddenly, pulling on his gloves as he looked questioningly at his master.
Sweat poured down John’s face as he tried to hold Christopher’s gaze. “What are you waiting for?”
“Mr. Shedd, I don’t think—”
“I don’t care what you think. Open the door.”
The pounding repeated itself in earnest, and Christopher looked back to John once more before slowly and deliberately making his way to the door, passing the mirrors festooned in crepe. He reached slowly for the handle, taking a tenuous grip. He twisted the handle, but the door didn’t budge.
“The lock,” John yelped sharply and looked quickly behind him, seemingly afraid someone else had heard.
Christopher hesitated a second more and turned the lock. Both the men waited a moment, their eyes glued to the door before Christopher turned the knob. The door opened with a great groan, the night suddenly invading the hallway.
The two stared at the visitor, his soaked clothing dripping heavily onto the porch. Henry McCann lifted his hat and overturned it, sending a cascade of water onto the floorboards. He peered suspiciously inside and then back into the night.
“Sir,” he began, still standing on the dark porch, “I have some… rather shocking news.”
“Please come in,” John said warily, his body willing him to move closer to the door.
“Please, sir, I think it would be best if you step out onto the porch.”
Light footsteps sounded on the landing above, and all the men turned to take in Maggie, her eyes glazed and exhausted. Behind her, Mariotta was creeping closer. The men stared back, and John’s hands trembled again.
“Go back to your rooms,” he whispered. “Please.”
Maggie widened her eyes, taking in the figure by the door. “I want to know what’s happening.”
“Go back to your room!” John said more forcefully.
Henry’s eyes flickered to hers briefly before quickly lowering. The squall continued unabated behind him, and he looked nervously out into the storm. “Please, Mr. Shedd. It is urgent.”
“Go!” John said fiercely to the women, with the servants hovering in the shadows behind them. He turned back to Henry and exhaled loudly. “I’m coming.”
John made his way to the door with overwhelming trepidation. His body screamed for him to turn and run, to get away from the open door leading out into the dark night. But it was too late now.
“Please,” Henry said again, urgency coursing through his voice.
John placed a hand against the door and felt the cool, thick rush of the soaked summer air. The night was incredibly black, the stars obliterated by the swollen clouds.
Immediately upon exiting the house, nearest the garden, he spied the dark figure. Its body began hitching, a thin keening emanating from it before it stepped into the light.
“My God,” John whispered as Henry stepped back, his face expressionless. The figure stepped into the thin, sickly stream of yellow light spilling from the entrance hall, and John saw her, clad in sopping, filthy grave clothes, her hair tangled and plastered against her pale, swollen, wet face. He felt paralyzed. He looked briefly back into the comfort of his home, wishing somehow that he could go back to the point before he’d stepped out here into this hellish storm.
Rose hurried forward, throwing herself into her father’s arms. “I’m so cold.”
John faltered, his body trying to recoil from the nightmarish creature in his arms, the thing wearing a pale white grave shift, the one who was supposed to be dead. She clung tighter, sharp fingers digging into his flesh.
“Rose,” he whispered. “You’re back.”
“Daddy, please!”
John looked at Henry, who placed his hat back on his head. “I’d best get home.”
“Mr. McCann!” John called, but as Henry turned, he realized he had no idea what to say. “I….”
Henry nodded and turned, striding purposely
down the walk toward his tethered horse.
John watched a moment, his dead and buried daughter shivering against him. Finally, he turned to go back inside, breaking free of the night.
Forty-Eight
Rose shivered and shuddered, her soaking wet garments plastered to her skin. She felt filthy in them, in this kind of wrapping to be taken into the earth. She could see warm lights playing in the house, and she longed to run in, to wrap herself in fresh clothes and blankets and snuggle back into her bed, the wicked nightmare having run its course.
Suppose this is the dream.
Rose shook her head hard, her breathing heavy. Surely this was over now. All of it.
“I want to go in,” she said softly.
“All right,” her father murmured, tentatively reaching his arm out to his sodden daughter. “It’s all right.”
Rose stepped toward the threshold of the house, the bottom of her grave clothes dragging wetly behind her. She blinked in the soft, sickly light, her surroundings hazy and surreal looking. “I want a bath.”
Her father turned to her, his face drawn and worried. “Maybe we should go to the parlor.”
A scream sounded from the upstairs landing, followed by a loud thump. A second later, Maggie’s body came sliding down the stairs, her arms grasping wildly at the banister. Mariotta stood on the landing, her hands covering her mouth, her eyes darting between the falling girl and the one who had returned from the grave.
“My God,” Mariotta whispered. “My God.”
Maggie caught herself, her dress sliding up past her thighs as she remained prone in the middle of the stairwell. She gaped for a moment, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. Eventually she let out a thin, piercing shriek and darted upstairs to throw her arms about her stepmother.
“Maggie?” Rose called, reaching a dirt-smudged arm out to her sister.
“What is this?” Maggie screamed. “What is it? My God, what is happening?”
“Maggie,” Rose called again, and this time the flood of tears that had been building inside her from the horror she’d experienced since waking up overcame her, and she wept, the mud still on her face streaking down to her shift. “Maggie!”
“Shhh,” Father said. “Quiet now. Wait in the parlor, and Violet will draw you a bath.” He paused for a moment and looked upstairs.
Rose shuffled into the parlor, overjoyed to see the warm, familiar room. The mirror over the sofa was covered in crepe, but otherwise, everything looked the same. A grin spread over her face, her former terror of the house forgotten as she reveled in the safety of her home. It couldn’t have been real, what happened. Everything was right here, normal.
The door opened, and Rachel stood in the doorway. “Miss Rose, come upstairs and I’ll help you undress.”
“Where’s Violet?” Rose asked meekly.
Rachel stood still for a moment, her eyes piercing Rose’s. “Please, Miss Rose, you’ll get sick.”
Rose shuddered. She didn’t dare get sick. Nothing like tonight could ever happen again. Nothing. It wasn’t possible.
Rachel cupped her hand and beckoned. “Come, you need to get warm.”
“I want to see Maggie.”
“Not now.”
“Why not?” Rose asked angrily, annoyed at the impertinence of the servant.
“It’s too much now.”
“What?” Rose snapped.
“They’re afraid!” Rachel said loudly and snapped her jaw shut, her arms stiff at her sides. “I’m sorry, Miss Rose.”
Rachel stepped away from her and tore the crepe from the mirror. Rose was looking directly at it, her gaze having followed Rachel’s movement. Her reflection stared back at her, a pale, filthy girl dressed in the tattered garments of the dead, her hair wild and disheveled. Her eyes, like huge dark hollows in her face, stared emptily back at her. The face looked so familiar reflected in the silvered glass.
Rose whipped her head back around and made a break for the door. “Maggie!”
“Miss Rose!” Rachel hissed. “You’ve got to stop it right now. I’m loyal and faithful to you, so I’m not going to run, but you need to understand.”
Rose’s body deflated. Exhaustion suddenly hit her hard, and the aches and pains in her limbs throbbed. “All right. I’ll take a bath.”
She started up the stairs, Rachel trailing her. A lamp flared brightly in the hallway, illuminating its emptiness. Rose made for her room, but Rachel grabbed her hand quickly, yanking her back a step.
“No, Miss Rose.” She gestured toward the spare room. “I’ll make it up nice and fresh for you while you’re in the bath.”
Rose stared sullenly at it, her body shivering even in the hot confines of the house. “I want to sleep in my own bed!”
Rachel sighed. “Please, Miss Rose.”
Rose glanced back once at her bedroom and wondered if the door was locked. The spare room door was shut as well, but Rachel slipped past her and opened it. The wardrobe loomed in the darkness.
“I can’t sleep here,” Rose said.
“You have to, Miss Rose. There’s nowhere else.”
“You know I can’t.” She gestured toward the wardrobe. “I won’t.”
Rachel lit a small candle from the hallway lamp to light one of the lamps in the spare room. Still carrying the small candleholder, she moved to the wardrobe, examining it a moment before turning the key stuck in one of the door’s locks. She shoved a heavy settee against the loose door, smacking the door back into its frame with a thump.
“Fine,” Rose said. She could barely hold herself up now. The room would have to do. “Do you have the hot water?”
Rachel paused, confused. “It’s just me….”
“Well, will you do it? I’ll undress myself.”
Rose turned her back and listened as Rachel shut the door and clattered downstairs. This room, she realized, was missing a mirror completely. She stood in the middle of the floor and picked at her burial shroud. It felt as if it had been glued to her, the mud having bonded the cloth to her skin. Rose shivered again and ripped at the material at the top of her chest, finally managing to tear it in her frenzy. She peeled the rest of the disgusting cloth from her mud-stained body and dropped it in a heap. She kicked it, shuddering at the image of herself draped in the horrible gown while lying in the parlor. Placing a hand in her ragged hair, she plucked out what appeared to be dried bits of flowers. Offerings for the dead.
The door reopened. “I’m filling it in the washroom,” Rachel said, her eyes riveted to the pile on the floor.
“Burn it,” Rose said, nudging it again with her bare foot.
“Yes, Miss Rose. Do you need another—”
“I don’t want to put on anything else ’til I’ve washed.”
Rachel nodded, leaving Rose to her own devices. Rose opened the door a crack and, seeing no one, snuck naked into the hall and into the small washroom. A tub was filled partway with water; obviously Rachel still hadn’t heated enough water to fill it in its entirety.
Below, the parlor clock chimed noisily, and she could hear the faint echoes of footsteps. Rose took a deep breath and stepped into the tub. Pieces of mud and other detritus sloshed off her into the clear water of the tub, whirling and twirling in the wake her body had made as she immersed herself. She stretched out and sank her head into the tub, her fingers sticking in her tangled, muddy hair.
Footsteps whispered up the stairs, and the door creaked open. Rachel bustled in with a heavy pot in her hands. She took a moment to stare at Rose, her lips drawn tight. “Miss Rose?”
“All right.” Rose stepped wet and dripping out of the tub, and Rachel poured fresh hot water into the muddy mess she’d left. She watched the bits of leaves and dirt particles swirl before sticking her toe in.
“Miss Rose, it’s hot!” Rachel said, reaching out limply as if she’d been about to take Rose’s arm but had changed her mind.
“It’s fine,” Rose said, slipping back into the steaming water. She continued to wa
sh herself, her body still shivering from the cold.
Forty-Nine
Maggie lay awake, her eyes wide open, her fingers wrapped tightly around her blanket. She could hear the movement beyond, the small steps and splashes and rustlings that had invaded the house in the depths of the night. She shivered, the warm night affording her no comfort.
Maggie knew she should be ecstatic, should be covering her sister in kisses and hugs, should be throwing the dark and sullen trappings of mourning from the house. But she couldn’t. Couldn’t even move.
There was something wrong. More than just seeing Rose in her grave shroud covered in dirt as if she’d yanked herself from deep within the earth, somehow clawing her way out of her tomb with her bare hands.
No. She had seen Rose. Had seen her dead.
Maggie shuddered and clutched herself tight. She had barely caught a glimpse of Rose in the dim light of the hallway, but her pale, wet skin had shimmered like the belly of a fish, her eyes dark and hollow. And a very light blush had begun to rise in her cheeks, as if the blood had only recently started pumping in her veins.
The scattered noises continued to mock her in the hallway. For the first time, she was afraid of the dark. She’d never understood Rose before, never understood what power the night had over her, what kept her restless and terrified. But now she felt it. And it was because of Rose.
And Rachel. Rachel, who had been sitting there, staring at her cold, unmoving sister just the other night, now tending to her every need. The only one who hadn’t fled in horror at the abomination that had stumbled into the house. That her father had unlocked the door for and invited in. Even now she could hear her tarrying in the hallway. Perhaps it had been her earlier tonight, standing outside the bedroom door. Waiting.
Maggie glanced at the door and finally gathered the courage to rise from the bed and turn the key in the lock. She felt like a madwoman doing it. She felt like Rose, in fact.
