Where the Briars Sleep

by Emma Beaven

  Once her hysteria died down, Rose got up and shuffled closer to the banister, but still the door did not open. Wheezing hard, she barreled down the stairs and back to her room, all the air exiting her lungs as she slammed her door shut and collapsed on the bed. Dust coated her dark blue dress and clotted her hair.

  Rose shook as she contemplated what she had seen, thoughts of Maggie’s accusations of madness floating through her head. Maybe it would be better if she were mad. That would mean nothing was in the hallway, and no secrets dwelled deep in the bowels of the house.

  Rose giggled again, about to strip off her dusty clothing before she realized Henry was sitting in a chair at the front of the room, watching her.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed.

  “I might ask you the same.”

  “I’ve been upstairs.”

  Henry narrowed his eyes, searching Rose’s gray irises, but he ignored Rose’s words. “You may care to change before dinner.”

  “Fine,” she whispered, waiting as he got up and departed, his eyes locked on her until she shut the door behind him.

  From her chair, she heard the ponderous dining room doors shut and a trio of footsteps. They paused near the closed door, and a soft, insidious whispering ensued. Rose swallowed hard and approached the door, but by the time she got close, the footsteps retreated, and she was left alone with the crackling wood.

  She soon found her way back to the bedroom, and to her surprise, Henry was sitting on the bed, his jacket and boots lying on the rich blue oriental rug. “You should sleep now.”

  Rose frowned. “It’s early.”

  He glanced around furtively. “Take a nap. Don’t be afraid.”

  “What?” She met his gaze.

  “The nightmares. You’re afraid of them again, aren’t you?”

  “I hadn’t really been thinking about it.”

  “Please, let me help you.” Henry patted the bed.

  “How are you going to help me?” Rose clutched her shawl around herself subconsciously.

  He shrugged and offered her a vague smile. “At least you’re not alone.”

  “It’s your room.”

  “I’ll be back.” He rose and exited the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

  Rose hurried to change, realizing Henry would be back any moment and the screen pressed against the wall wasn’t tall enough to completely hide her.

  After she changed, she retreated to the bed, and Henry returned as soon as she pulled the covers up to her chin. He sat down on the bed and shut his eyes, allowing his breathing to slow to a vague shudder. Rose closed her eyes and wriggled closer to the wall. As she tried to fall asleep, she realized his presence was, in fact, some small comfort, and soon, despite the events of the day, she fell asleep.

  And she did dream. The nightmare took her to the front yard, her back to the house as she stared down the drive. Soon, a figure appeared at the end of the drive, its hands cupped around its mouth. Rose squinted, taking a step forward, her fear in the dream world having yet to take her. After a time, the figure began marching back and forth, its mouth working as if it were shouting, but she could hear no sound. She took another step and then another, until she could make out the figure’s features.

  It was Sarah. It had to be Sarah. Her mouth moved as she stepped backward, and despite herself, Rose strained to hear to no avail.

  When she finally woke, her body lathered in sweat, a cracked, dusty voice ranted in her head, its tone like the crunching of dead leaves. “Better if you were dead.”

  Seventy-Nine

  “You have to tell her. She’s been upstairs.”

  “Yes, you should tell her. If not now, when?”

  Rose watched the three as if it were a play while they spoke about her directly in front of her. The back of her head was itching like mad, and when she put her hand to the old wound, bits of dried brown material fell into her palm.

  A sudden silence ensued, followed by the feeling of eyes fixating on her. She brought her head up to see the three looking directly at her as if she were some exotic animal in a cage. Rose reached up and grabbed the jeweled cross at her throat.

  “Someone’s been prying, hasn’t she?” Ann asked.

  Rose bit down on her lip hard and looked at Henry.

  Henry shook his head sadly. “Why couldn’t you just stay put for a little longer?”

  “What’s up there?” Rose rasped.

  “What has she seen?” Mr. Hill asked Henry.

  “Nothing. The time isn’t right.”

  Their eyes continued to bore into her as they shuffled closer. Rose began to shake. Henry reached out a hand, trying to snag her sleeve, but she broke away, forcing her way past all of them and down the echoing hallway.

  Rose fled out the great front door, slamming it behind her as she skittered down the stairs and across the drive. She fled through the rain-soaked grass and down to the sodden dirt road, her feet pulling her forward as if in a dream. A cart rumbled in the distance, and her heart leapt. Words and images twisted inside her mind as she plunged ahead, desperate to reach the vehicle that would contain another human being, someone who didn’t dwell in that horrible house.

  Soon the carriage appeared around a bend, barreling toward Rose. As she tried to reach the safety of the grass, she tripped and fell into the wet embankment, her head striking a rock.

  Rose lay still on the ground, watching as her vision shaded the world in a deep, rusty red. She lifted her hand almost casually and tried to brush away the red haze as the shouts of the cart’s driver reached her. He entered into the mist as Rose continued to wipe wet, sticky fluid from her face, her pain morphing into a terrible itch deep within her skull.

  The man advanced, his fingers wrapped around the hem of his coarse jacket. His mouth was moving, but Rose could only hear the hollow rush of wind through the trees. Moments later, he was leaning down, reaching for her. She relaxed slightly, letting her own bloody hands fall back into the mud. She waited to be picked up, to be delivered to safety, but somehow, his hands never reached her. They had stopped dead.

  Rose whimpered as she followed his eyes, his gaze fixed beyond her, across the grass. She searched desperately through the bloody haze, blinking in the pinkish light that flooded her vision.

  Henry and his companion stood at the end of the yard, watching quietly. As she gazed at them, Mr. Hill rolled up his sleeve and scratched his arm vigorously. “She’s ill,” he called out. “You mustn’t touch her. She has the fever.”

  The cart driver dropped his hands and fled as his horses bucked under their harnesses.

  The strength drained out of Rose as the pair approached, Henry reaching for her. She allowed herself to be dragged up, her feet sticking briefly in the mud before she was hauled back to the house. The door slammed behind them, and they were immediately coated by the dusty silence.

  Rather than sending her to the bath, Henry hauled her back to the parlor. Ann was waiting there on the formal couch, her posture rigid. Rose could feel all their eyes on her, their gazes prickling her skin.

  “You should tell her now,” Ann said.

  “I’m not ready.” Henry’s voice was soft and quavering, like that of a frightened child. He propelled Rose toward one of the end chairs.

  “You have to. She knows something’s wrong.”

  Rose giggled at the understatement, her body sagging against the seat as she watched the exchange.

  “She’s in the house,” Ann said, and her husband nodded.

  “Not possible,” Henry said, shaking his head, his hands clenching and unclenching as he paced back and forth across the room.

  “She’s seen her too,” Ann said, stretching out her finger to point accusingly at Rose.

  “I want to go home,” Rose said meekly.

  “You are home,” Henry responded, a note of exasperation in his voice. “I’m trying to make it better. I wanted to make you understand first.”

  Rose rolled her eyes about the room, he
r gaze roving between Henry, Mr. Hill, and Ann. The back of her head was itching badly, but she resisted the urge to pick at the dead skin. The blood had dried on her face, gluing her eyelashes together. Twisted pieces of hardened hair hung in her face like tangled, naked branches. Rose giggled again as she imagined what she must look like, coated in blood and mud and debris.

  Suddenly she became aware of the silence, the horrible, creeping dead air that flushed the room of oxygen and brought with it the hovering dust. The other three had paused, their heads cocked, waiting. And finally, over the ticking of the ancient grandfather clock in the corner, the distant sound of footsteps carried its way into the parlor, the clicking of heels on marble growing louder and louder. Rose held her breath as she waited, knowing what would inevitably come.

  Just as she knew it would, the doorknob turned slowly as the clacking stopped. Henry, Ann, and Mr. Hill turned their heads to face it while Rose cowered in the chair, waiting to see what lay beyond the door. Her breath expelled loudly as the door opened fully.

  Sarah walked in, wearing the same dress she had worn the night she died, the last dress Rose had ever seen her in. It was stiffened by blackened blood with very little of the original pale yellow still remaining. Her skin was thin and grayish, resembling the desiccated corpse of a fly, devoid of the flush of life.

  “I told you I’d see you soon, Rose.”

  Rose’s head throbbed.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” Henry rasped but didn’t attempt to prevent her from making further ingress.

  Rose grew rigid and hopped out of her chair. “You see her!” she exclaimed, her voice shrill and hysterical.

  Henry turned to her. “Of course I see her,” he said dully.

  “But….” Rose fell back in her chair, her eyes glued to the monstrosity that had now made its way to the center of the oriental rug.

  “Now, Rose,” Sarah said, extending a bluish hand, “there’s no need to be afraid anymore.”

  Rose shuddered, her fingers intertwining and picking at her dry skin. “Get out of this house.”

  Sarah shook her head, her neck popping loudly as it swiveled back and forth. Carefully she reached down and plucked a bit of her dress material. It crackled dryly, and Rose imagined that Sarah’s skin would sound the same if touched. Sarah peered thoughtfully at the flaking cloth for a bit before turning back to Rose.

  “I’m sure you don’t believe it, but I do pity you, Rose. I would pity anyone in this place. It’s why I came, you know.”

  Rose whimpered as Sarah advanced. “Ask for it and I may grant it,” Sarah said.

  “Ask for what?” Rose’s whisper sounded like an explosion in the silence.

  “Come on, Rose!” Sarah leaned forward, her body appearing to bend nearly in half as she leaned toward her stepsister. “Stop pretending.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rose shrank farther into her seat.

  “Why do you think you’re here?”

  “Because… Henry and I….” Rose turned to Henry, her expression pleading.

  He looked away, his eyes dropping to his lap. The others had turned their eyes to the floor.

  “Henry!” Rose screeched, panic emptying her mind.

  “We’re all guilty, of course,” he said quietly, his hands clenched. “I’d hoped you’d understand by now.”

  “I don’t! I don’t understand!”

  “We’ve all watched. It’s the easiest sin. It doesn’t even feel like you’re doing anything wrong.”

  Rose’s eyes widened.

  “You remember, Rose. You remember what you did. There are so many things from which one can avert his eyes. Just ask your companions.”

  Rose let out a whimper as Sarah reached her brittle fingers toward her, finally dropping to caress Rose’s own.

  “I didn’t do anything!” Rose shouted, drawing her fingers back but unable to break the gaze she shared with Sarah.

  “You didn’t, did you?” Sarah took a step back. “Despite what you heard. Despite what you saw.”

  “It’s not fair!” Rose cried plaintively. “It’s just not fair! I’m a light sleeper. How is that fair that Maggie sleeps so heavy? If I was a heavy sleeper, I would never have known!” She got up from her chair, her eyes darting between the various figures poised about the room. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “But you did see!” Sarah lifted an accusing finger toward her.

  “We’ve all done it,” Henry interrupted. “We understand. God knows it’s hard to act.”

  “I saw you,” Sarah hissed, and Rose recoiled as if she’d been slapped.

  “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “You heard me. You saw. Your father will be in Hell soon enough. But you….”

  A tear rolled down Rose’s cheek, through the blood dried on her face. “There was nothing I could do.”

  Sarah laughed, a horrible broken sound that tumbled roughly out of her decayed, bloodless throat. “Rose, Rose, Rose. You liar. You scared little girl. How frightened did you think I was? How frightened were you when I crawled out of your wardrobe?”

  “Please!” Rose choked out, her heart dropping like a stone in her chest as she remembered opening the wardrobe that day.

  Around her, the dim, muffled cries of her distant memories crept into her ears and echoed in her head. She could feel the gentle caress of the covers and Maggie’s comforting presence beside her. She knew instinctively that the floor would be terribly cold once she left her warm, safe nest and traveled across the milky white rug. It was so dark there too, the heavy violet drapes pulled safely closed against the night.

  In her mind, Rose’s own voice screamed at her not to go. Maggie snorted in her sleep, and Rose longed to stay there forever, warm and safe and comfortable. The sounds preyed on her mind, though, the soft whimpering scraping Rose’s brain raw.

  Rose’s feet hit the ground, and somehow she was no longer immersed in the comfort of the blankets. Maggie’s snoring became distant and indistinct while the other sound increased in volume, driving Rose mad.

  Rose could feel the knob under her fingers now, the brass smooth and cold against her skin. She was aware of someone calling her, the voice oozing under her feet and reeling her slowly into the hallway. The door by the stairs was open just a crack. She remembered it rather than seeing. Just like the wardrobe door would be later.

  “I don’t want to look,” Rose whispered. “Please don’t make me look.”

  “Why not, Rose?”

  Rose opened her eyes wide. She was back in the parlor with Sarah’s specter hanging over her expectantly.

  “I… I…,” Rose gasped, her nails clenched into the fleshy portions of her palms. “I’m sorry.”

  Sarah smiled, her lips splitting in the moist creases of her cheeks, exposing thick white material. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

  Rose fell on the floor, the echo of the sounds resonating through her, making her muscles contract as she pulled her knees to her chest. Vaguely in her memory, she could see Sarah’s eyes. Paralyzed, their eyes had locked, and Rose remembered how watery they looked, streaked with red, her pupils huge.

  “But words are cheap, though you wouldn’t even afford me that before. You need to prove it.”

  Rose snapped her head up. Henry stared at her mournfully while the Hills’ expressions remained blank.

  “I’ve decided I feel bad for you, Rose. You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve anyone’s sympathy. But I feel… a bit of compassion, I suppose. All this stuff… it hurts.” Sarah’s head tilted to the side, and her eyes closed momentarily. “I have to put all things to rest. And so do you.”

  “Please help me,” Rose wailed wretchedly as she reached out for Sarah’s dry, mottled hand. “I’ll do anything.”

  “Rose, wait!” Henry skittered over to her, his eyes fixed warily on Sarah. “It’s not so bad here. They stay upstairs. You don’t know what she wants.” He pointed to the ceiling. “I’ll show you upsta
irs. Marge is there, and everything will be just like it was. You’ll hardly know the difference.”

  Sarah ignored Henry, pushing her wrecked body close to her stepsister. “I can forgive you.” She paused for a moment, pulling her head closer to Rose’s. “I will forgive you. And then you can be free.”

  “Help me, Sarah!” As Rose squeezed the dry hand, flakes of skin sloughed off onto the floor. Sarah’s cloudy eyes rolled around until they were focused downward. A large drop of fluid that resembled pus dripped out of her right eye and slid down her bone-white cheek.

  “I will, Rose. I will.” Sarah placed her hand on Rose’s head, rubbing it gently. “But you must do penance first.”

  Rose nodded vigorously. “Whatever is necessary.”

  “You have to take my place.”

  “What?” Rose looked up, trying to meet Sarah’s leaky eyes.

  “For a year. You take my place as it was then. Just a year. And when you’re done, you’ll be forgiven. You’ll be free of this place.”

  “Wh-What?” Rose stuttered, rising to her knees.

  “It’s not so bad, right, Rose? Not bad enough for you to break your silence.”

  Rose’s eyes widened. Suddenly she could see herself back at home, but this time her bedroom door was shut. Within, she could hear the ringing tones of giggling girls.

  Her dress, she noticed, was an ugly, dark yellow instead of the pale muslins she always wore. Curly red hair dribbled from the back of her head and down past her shoulders. Night was stretching its wings down the long hallway as a door opened.

  “You little thief. You took my cross, didn’t you?”

  Rose turned to see a mirror image of herself sneering, while Maggie hung in the background, shaking her head.

  “Did you hear me?” the other Rose asked.

  Rose backed up involuntarily as she was approached by her double. “Did you hear me?”