by Emma Beaven
When she and Henry entered the dining room. Mr. Hill rose and bowed slightly. “Good morning, madam.”
“Good morning, Mr. Hill,” Henry said, placing his hand lightly on Rose’s shoulder as he entered. “Mrs. Hill.”
“Good morning,” Ann said quietly, one hand immediately falling to her stomach.
Rose offered her own soft greeting, desperately wanting to withdraw from this bizarre assemblage. Henry, Rose noticed, was staring fixedly at Mr. Hill. Their eyes were locked, their gazes unreadable.
“Please, sit down,” Rose said to Ann, gesturing to the chair from which she’d risen.
They were served breakfast almost immediately, and before Rose had time to wipe her mouth, Mr. Hill and Henry were gone, having disappeared once again into the bowels of the house while she and Ann were left to their own devices.
“There isn’t much staff for such a big house,” Ann ventured.
“That’s because they keep dying,” Rose said before clapping her hand over her mouth, astonished at herself.
“Perhaps you’ve married Bluebeard,” Ann said.
“I should like to think not,” Rose responded, wrapping a loose strand of hair around her fingers. “But I wish I could go upstairs.”
“It’s locked?”
“I’m not sure. The door may just be stuck.”
“Will you get a new servant soon?” Ann asked, changing the subject.
“I don’t know. Did you know one of the girls killed herself?”
Ann blinked rapidly, then nodded as Rose held her gaze. The air seemed to swell around them as Rose shifted uncomfortably. Outside, the trees shuddered beneath the dull gray sky, their naked branches clawing against the tiny slice of sun that was trying to break free of its captivity.
“Do you want to go outside for a bit?” Ann finally asked.
Rose nodded, quickly slipped from her seat and darted out the door.
The sun trying to break through the clouds seemed overly bright, and the thunder rumbled deeply within the atmosphere as soon as Rose and Ann stepped outside.
The cat also slipped outside, and it was now playing among the shrubs outside the house, occasionally pausing to stare at Rose as it plucked the dirt with one of its paws. The thunder rumbled again, causing them all to glare balefully at the sky as the storm rolled in.
“There’s something wrong with this place,” Rose whispered softly. “I don’t like it here.”
Ann looked at her strangely as she toyed with the midsection of her dress. “I don’t either,” she said finally. “But you must learn to make the best of it.”
“I don’t think Henry loves me.”
Large raindrops fell from the sky. “Forgive me, but maybe we should retreat into the house,” Ann said.
The house loomed huge and dark in front of them, and for a moment, Rose was sure she could hear someone whispering to her, someone far away on the second floor, locked behind the sullen glass.
In the kitchen, the girl was plucking another Cornish hen, yanking clods of feathers out and dumping them to the floor carelessly. Her face was pale white, but her eyes burned dark. She has the fever now, Rose thought. The girl’s head hung slightly to the side, and at the corner of her lips, a small pool of saliva threatened to overflow her mouth.
“Are you feeling well?” Rose asked tentatively, recoiling prematurely at what she feared might come from the girl’s mouth.
“The bird is nearly plucked. Look.”
The girl flung the naked bird out, its head lolling obscenely on its long neck. The water on the stove hissed and spit as it boiled over, and the girl turned slowly to look at it, shoving the goose in front of her like a shield.
Rose wished she hadn’t come into the kitchen, wished she’d been able to better suppress her hunger and sit primly in the parlor like a proper lady. The girl was rubbing the hen on her forehead now, and as soon as Rose caught sight of it, she gasped. The girl’s white apron was torn at the shoulder, and smudges of grime or thick dust coated the front.
“Fever,” she said. “Walking behind the door.”
She’s delirious. “I’ll call for the doctor,” Rose said, though she had little hope that the doctor could do anything for her.
“Yes’m,” she said, her fevered smile breaking like a gash through her snowy skin as she dropped the featherless bird on the floor.
Shock held her still for a moment, but finally, Rose bent down and put the bird onto the fire. “Everything will be all right.”
Seventy-Six
The next morning, just as Rose had awakened and stretched her stiff body, trying to rid herself of her dreams, Henry walked into the bedroom, still wearing the previous day’s clothes.
“I hope I’m not intruding.”
Rose blushed and shook her head. She struggled uncomfortably under the covers, unsure what to make of the moment.
“It’s your room,” she said finally.
“I am glad you’re here, you know. This can be a lonely place.”
Rose wasn’t sure whether she should get up. “You need more staff,” she said.
“Come now, Rose, then what are wives for?” His smile lit up his face, and she instantly felt her guard falling.
“We need someone to cook, at least. A servant always cooked at my father’s house.”
Henry stared at her oddly.
“What I mean is that I don’t really know how to cook,” Rose said, feeling uncomfortable once more. “I think I’d better get dressed.”
“Perhaps we could both use some air.”
Rose nodded quickly.
He gave her one last cryptic gaze before closing the door behind him.
She dressed quickly, and when she strolled out into the front hallway, Henry was waiting for her, his arm out.
“Shall we?” he asked.
Rose stared questioningly at him. “Shall we what?”
“Get some air. Go outside.”
Rose nodded, taking his arm and allowing him to lead her through the door.
The grounds were strangely lush, their fading green seeming almost luxurious against the iron-gray backdrop. A chilly breeze swept over the lawn at random intervals, causing Rose to drop Henry’s arm to clutch her shawl more tightly around her. Though he seemed roused by the cold.
“Rose?”
“Yes?”
“You do like it here, don’t you? I mean, you like it more than living in your father’s house.”
“Well, I—”
“Because it’s not always so… grim.”
“I don’t know. I’ve been feeling a bit lonely.”
“But we have guests!” Henry exclaimed. “I thought you’d feel better.”
“I suppose it’s helped a bit.”
“And you haven’t been having nightmares, have you?”
Rose stopped short. “How did you know about my nightmares?”
“I’m sure you’ve mentioned it.”
“I never mentioned my nightmares.” She stared at his outstretched arm suspiciously. “How did you know?”
“What are you upset about?” Henry asked, his voice calm and even. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Let’s go in, shall we?”
“It’s just….” Rose fumbled for words while he smiled and nodded sympathetically.
“It’s cold. Let’s go in and have breakfast and hot tea.”
Back in the sitting room, a fire blazed warmly, making the room feel safe and cozy. Rose began to feel somewhat cheered. The cat had gotten into her sewing box, which she’d carelessly left out, and now threads and pieces of cloth scattered over the floor like confetti. She picked up a piece of string and dangled it over the cat’s head, giggling as the tiny creature swiped at it. After a few moments, there was a distinct shift in the air, and she looked up to see Ann hovering in the doorway.
“Are you ready to go exploring?” she asked, a small uncomfortable smile curving her pale lips.
“You don’t look like you’re in much of a position to,” Rose coun
tered, staring directly at Ann’s swollen stomach.
“It’s true. I suppose I’m not. I’ll find something else to occupy my time, then.”
Rose blushed, realizing how rude she’d been, how inappropriately direct.
“It’s well enough, I guess. It is painful some days,” Ann continued, oblivious to Rose’s discomfort.
“I can imagine.”
“How far are we from the city?”
“We’re a few miles from town. I don’t know how far from the city.” Rose glanced out the window, eager to avoid continuing their rather tedious conversation. “Do you want to go outside?”
“Most definitely.”
The two grabbed their shawls and stepped out into the dreary afternoon. Somehow, the day had grown warmer, though rain still threatened to break through the clouds’ worn seams. Red, gold, and deep purple leaves hung from the trees, and Rose thought about what a lovely place it could be when it wasn’t raining and overcast. It seemed to rain almost constantly, however, and even when the sky didn’t weep, it remained a dull, thick gray that squeezed the life out of the landscape.
“Can you help me?” Ann asked, putting a hand on Rose’s shoulder and leaning heavily against her as she descended the stairs, nearly toppling them both and reminding Rose of Maggie.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t walk outside,” Rose said, her left arm locked on the iron banister.
“I’m fine,” Ann said softly. “I just need to get my footing.”
Rose helped Ann down the remaining stairs, somehow managing not to crash into the stone walkway. The two then began their stroll around the house. They walked in silence for a time, taking in the last of the dying light that had dared to seep from the sky. The sun peeked out briefly before falling away, and in those few moments, hazy light shattered the emptiness between the trees, bathing the birds and squirrels in its orange glow. It reminded Rose of summer, and that made her think of home. She wondered what Maggie was doing, what they might be having for dinner.
“This one isn’t so bad.”
“What?” Rose ripped herself from her thoughts to turn to Ann.
“The house. It has character.”
“Well, I don’t like it much. It’s too big.”
“Stay in the small places. Then it feels better.”
Rose rubbed her head, unsure of how to respond. Her feet were growing tired, and she was feeling weary in general, Rose realized, since she had gotten out of the habit of her regular walks.
“Let’s go in,” she said finally, watching the breeze begin to sway the thin branches. When Ann didn’t respond, Rose glanced over at her only to see her staring fixedly at the house.
“How much help is there now?” Ann asked.
“Just the cook.”
“You’ll have more soon enough.”
Seventy-Seven
“Rose.”
Rose knew she was dreaming. The filtered pale gray light illuminated a tree-shrouded lawn on which was placed a table and chairs. She was seated in one of the chairs while the other was occupied by a woman with her bonnet pulled so low it overshadowed her face. Still, she knew who it was.
“Did you miss me, Rose?”
“You don’t belong here,” Rose whispered, surprising herself with her bravery.
“That is true,” Sarah said, tilting her bonnet back so Rose could look directly into her milky eyes. “But we have business to discuss.”
“I don’t have any business with you.”
“Oh my,” Sarah said, tilting her head to the sky. “It looks like a storm’s coming. Better hurry.”
Rose’s eyes followed Sarah’s to see the dull gray turn purple and finally blacken in strange patches as the wind began to kick, whipping the trees in a frenzy under the decaying sky.
“I don’t have to talk to you anymore.”
“No you don’t, Rose. But I think you’ll want to.”
“Why?”
“How do you like your new home?”
Rose frowned, her skin beginning to crawl. “I want to wake up.”
“It won’t do you any good. You’re sick in your own skin now. Stuck. And they can smell it on you.”
“Who?”
Sarah snorted. “The living, silly. They can smell it!”
Rose knocked over her chair as Sarah snorted and snuffled, her body shaking with laughter.
“Get out of my dreams!”
“All right, Rose. I’ll come and see you in person soon.”
The itching was unbearable, and Rose could feel her head throbbing under her irritated skin. And what was worse, Henry looked sick again. His forehead shone brightly with sweat, and he was rubbing his skin hard as he peered at her through eyes narrowed to slits.
“What’s wrong, Rose?”
She flinched. “You’re sick.”
“I’m fine.”
“I had a nightmare.”
Henry snapped his head toward the bedroom door. “What?”
Rose watched him warily. “It was just a bad dream.”
He shook his head slightly. “It can’t be.”
She lifted her pale pink shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. “I need some air.”
Henry didn’t reply, but as Rose exited the room, she could hear him mumbling to himself, saying things that didn’t make sense. She rushed quickly down the hallway toward the front of the house, and just as she rounded the corner past the stairs to head to the front parlor, she saw it. The door at the top of the stairs was pushed open just the slightest bit, as if someone had been prying at it.
Rose stood there, paralyzed, her breath catching in her throat. Slowly she looked from left to right, searching for signs of Henry or their houseguests. When she was satisfied that no one was around, she mounted the stairs, her breathing heavy.
After an agonizingly slow shuffle up the stairs, she finally found herself in front of the door. A faint tingling sensation began in her fingers as she pressed them gently against the doorknob, caressing it. She hesitated, terrified to push the door, knowing it would open this time.
Rose stood mesmerized and dared herself to expose the ancient rooms that must make up the unused second floor. A faint scampering, like bare feet against hardwood, emerged from behind the door. She nearly choked as her hand dropped from the knob. Chills ran up and down her body, prickling her skin.
“Hello?” Rose managed to croak softly. “Ann?”
The shuffling stopped abruptly, and she took a quick step back.
“Rose?”
She screamed, slamming her hands against her ears as footsteps hurried up the stairs and cool hands pressed against her arms. Rose shrieked and struggled, knocking at the arms that were trying to hold her still.
“Stop it! Stop it!”
She clamped her mouth shut as she focused on Ann, who had released her and now stood with her back pressed against the oak banister. Her face was so pale, it was almost ashen. “What are you doing here?” Ann asked.
“What are you doing here?” Rose squealed in response.
“I only came to see what you were doing,” Ann said defiantly. “You’re hysterical.”
“I’m not hysterical!” Rose shouted. “There’s something behind the door.”
Ann only stared at her, her dark eyes hollow.
“Get out of my way.” Rose rushed past Ann, nearly knocking her over as she descended the stairs, still shuddering. She fled into the dining room, not daring to look back. Finally, she fell into a chair shaking, grateful the fire was already burning.
“Of course there couldn’t be anyone there,” she whispered. “I’m just upset because of the nightmare.”
Rose giggled to herself as her shawl slipped off her shoulders and onto the floor. She bent down to retrieve it, and just as her fingers hooked a piece of the silk, she saw thick dust from the floor clinging to the fabric.
She dropped it back to the floor, starting to shake once more. Very slowly, she nudged her foot under the material, spreading it out carefully i
n front of the fire.
There, on the side which would have covered her left shoulder, was a grimy, dusty handprint.
Seventy-Eight
It preyed on Rose’s mind like the echoing of footsteps slipping through the dust, so down the hallway and up the stairs she went once more, moving steadily toward the forbidden, forgotten area. Sneaking softly and glancing surreptitiously over her shoulder, she made her way to the door. Obviously Ann had been in there, and she wasn’t the only one. It was the secret to the sickness.
Rose had seen the dust on the cook, and Marge had said she’d seen the other servant upstairs. They’d all gotten sick after they’d gone there. But how had they gotten inside?
This time the knob refused to turn. She pondered the situation a moment before pulling a hairpin from her perfectly coifed hair and inserting it into the lock. After a bit of poking and prodding, she heard the tumbler drop, and the knob became loose in her hand.
Rose pushed the door wide, her breath catching in her throat as the dark, dank hallway exposed itself. Dust coated the floor, and the smell of mildew assaulted her nostrils. She placed a hand over her mouth and prepared herself to enter the hallway, her foot dangling for a moment on the threshold.
Barely had she set her foot down before she saw the trails of footprints tracing their way back and forth through the dust, as if pacing. Rose inhaled too deeply, and a cough built in her throat, threatening to betray her silence, but Rose kept her cough in her throat, the soft sound of rustling silk reaching her ears.
Rose froze in terror, automatically searching the vast darkness. It was too dim to make much out, but her eyes adjusted to the lightlessness. Deep gray shadows lay heavy along the paneling, and as she turned to flee, one slowly detached itself from the wall, the rustling overly loud in the silence.
Rose’s eyes watered as she mustered the will to slam the door. Panting, she backed away, but without the key, there was no way she could lock it. She could feel the panic, the hysteria building as she let out a bubbling giggle and fell on her backside. She was certain the doorknob would turn while she sat laughing wildly on the landing, and whatever lay behind the door would drag her, unresisting, down the hallway.
