by Kris Calvert
Ray sat beside me on the couch and stared into my eyes. “I don’t know if you’re mentally prepared for this after the day we’ve had.”
“Funny,” I replied. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”
Ray tilted his head silently questioning my remark.
“Show me the drawing.”
Ray nodded and took a deep breath as he unrolled the heavy paper onto the coffee table in front of us, using knickknacks to hold down the corners.
Gasping, I put my hand over my mouth when I saw it.
“I found it this way this afternoon. It was just hanging on the wall, you know—tacked up like the rest of the shit I randomly draw—and when I came home from lunch it looked like this.”
Three red slashes covered the majority of the drawing. “Is that red paint?” I asked as I ran my fingers overtop of it.
“I don’t think so.” Ray said refusing to look at me.
“Ray.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“What do you mean?” I asked as I switched hands, running my fingers over the red marks again. “This isn’t…”
“Blood?” Ray asked. “I’m just saying it so you don’t have to.”
“Well is it?”
“I don’t have any red paint. I’m all out from doing the oils on the rose collection I’ve started. I came home with it today after lunch, but someone or something had done this. Wait,” he said grabbing my hand. “What the hell?”
Pulling my hand away, I held it close to my body. I knew what he was looking at.
“Lizzie. What’s happening? What happened to your hand?”
Ray tugged at my fingers, prying them away from my chest and examining it closely. Slamming my hand onto the drawing he pointed. “Shit, Liz.”
The marks on the face of the man matched the three marks on top of my hand. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Opening my computer, I looked Ray in the face as the fire from across the room caused a storm to rage in the eyes of the man I loved. “I need to show you something—I need to show you someone.”
Turning my computer around to face Ray, I watched the blood drain from his face. There on my screen was a black and white photograph of a handsome man—the same man in Ray’s sketch. “Meet Edmund Gold. A physician from the Rosewood Asylum in 1920.”
20
ELIZA
Up all night, I read what I could find about Dr. Edmund Gold and found a link to the foundation that bore his name. I was grateful for something to do for the night. Sleeping wasn’t on my agenda. Ray lay on the couch next to me all night—on guard.
By nine the next morning, I was sitting in Ray’s Jeep outside the doors of The Gold Foundation waiting for someone to arrive. Finally, at nine-thirty, a small man walked up to the old door and pulled a set of keys from his pocket.
Bolting out of the car, I hurried across the street, dodging the business rush hour traffic. “Sir!” I called to him. “Sir!”
Pausing at the door he waited for me to cross the street before speaking. “May I help you with something, young lady?”
“Yes.” I gasped, out of air from excitement and my jog through traffic. “I was wondering if you have a moment. I want to speak with you about Dr. Edmund Gold.”
He eyed me up and down and hesitated, but only for a second. “Of course. Step inside. It’s getting chilly early this year.”
I nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
I followed the man through the maze of old hallways until he finally flipped the switched on a bank of lights illuminating an office. “Have a seat,” he said gesturing to the set of chairs in front of his desk. “Can I get you some coffee?”
I sat and unzipped my coat. I decided to forego the scarf and had opted for a turtleneck. It hid the bruises on my neck and kept me warm all at the same time. “No. Thank you.”
“I’ll be just a moment,” he said, as he hung his blazer on an ancient coat tree in the corner. “I’m Lester by the way. Lester Searing.”
I took his outstretched hand and gave it a polite but firm shake. “Eliza Lovelace.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Lovelace.”
I looked around the room in search of a clue as to who Edmund Gold might have been. I’d studied his face all night and now I was driven by a force I couldn’t explain to know everything about the man.
“Now,” Lester began as he sat behind his desk, moving a stack of papers out from under his hands. “What may I do for you?”
I realized in my quest to find out more about Edmund, I’d not fully thought through my approach. “Look, I know this is going to sound bizarre—what I’m about to tell you—but I want you to just bear with me for a moment while I get it all out.” I waited for a response and was met with silence so I purposely asked for a verbal confirmation to my incoherent blabbering. “Okay?”
Lester nodded, but gave no indication that he would throw me out of his office for being a raving lunatic.
“I recently bought a house here in Baltimore—an old house. I’ve started renovating it and some things have happened that can’t be explained. To make a long story short, my house is haunted and I think, maybe, by Dr. Edmund Gold.”
Lester calmly took a sip of his coffee and remained silent after I’d blurted out a summary of my three and a half months living on Park Ave.
“What do you think about that?” I asked.
Blinking deliberately, Lester stared at me. “Well,” he said dragging the word out. “I don’t know what to think about that. Why do you think Dr. Gold is…” he paused searching for my exact words, “haunting your house?”
“Because he told me so.”
“I see.”
It was clear to me that Lester thought I was one brick shy of a load. Checking the pocket watch that hung from his vest, I knew he was thinking of the best way to get rid of me. “Look…Miss Lovelace…”
“I can prove it.”
Pausing I saw the expression on his face change from skeptical to intrigued. “How?”
Pulling the rolled drawing from my bag I stood. “Do you have somewhere I can lay this out?”
He stood and motioned for me to follow him. As Lester turned on the lights, I didn’t look around, but made a beeline for the large table in the center of the room. Rolling out the drawing I began to speak, “My boyfriend is an artist. He drew this in his sleep one night—well not in his sleep—he was sleepwalking. Later when we brought a medium in to find out what in the world was going on in our house, we recorded some stuff via EVP. Do you know what that is?” I asked.
He stared at the drawing as I unfolded it, running his fingers across the red marks that covered the doctor’s face. “Yes,” he replied, not looking up to me.
“There were only two names recorded that night—mine and Edmund Gold. Which is why I’m here. I think he wants to send a message to me. But I don’t know what it is. Mr. Searing?”
He was off in his own world, as he stared at the drawing without looking up. “Your boyfriend—the man who drew this—is he from Baltimore?”
“No,” I replied. “He’s from New York. Why?”
“And did he know who the man in the drawing was?”
“No.”
Lester joined me on my side of the table and took me by the shoulders, turning me around to face the wall.
Hanging above the mantel was a small eight by ten pencil drawing. It was identical to the one Ray had done.
“Oh my God.” I found it hard to breathe and immediately collapsed into the nearest chair. “Oh my God.”
“Miss Lovelace. This drawing is almost one hundred years old. It’s part of a private collection—something very dear to Dr. Gold’s heart—something that was never shown publicly. How you have an exact replica is beyond me.”
“I…” I stuttered through the word. I was speechless. “Where did Dr. Gold live?” I asked. “He must’ve lived in my house at some point, right?”
Lester shook his head.
�
��How can you be so sure? I mean this was like ninety years ago. He could’ve lived in my house for a little while. Right?”
Lester shook his head again. He was a man of few words when I needed him to sing like a canary. “How can you know that for sure?”
“I know he didn’t live in your house, because he lived here. In this house.”
I looked around mentally begging Dr. Gold to tell me something—anything. What I realized was that Dr. Gold didn’t give two hoots about me because it wasn’t about him. “I just thought he was the key. I thought he was the answer.”
“I’m sorry,” Lester replied.
Staring at the pencil drawing I found it ironic that a simple piece of art had such an elaborate mat and frame around it. It showed me that the owner felt it to be very special. “Who was the artist?” I asked.
“Come with me,” Lester said, turning out the light and guiding me back into his cozy office.
“Please tell me you know, Lester. Your silence is killing me.”
“Yes, Miss Lovelace. I know who drew the picture of Dr. Gold. He loved her so much he spent his life looking for her. Her name was Beatrice. Dr. Gold called her Beauty.”
21
BEAUTY
Zara walked into the room where I was curled up in my bed, and sat beside me. She didn’t have to say anything. I knew Zara and Christine had both suffered at the hands of Madam, Elizabeth and Sir. Still, she rubbed my back and did her best to console me—something Zara never did.
“I’m sorry, Beauty,” she said in a whisper.
“I just don’t understand why we’re here.”
Zara sat back and let out a sigh. “You’re here because you have spells, Christine’s here because she can’t think for herself and I’m here…well, I’m here because I would rather love another woman than a man.”
“I’m…”
“Don’t talk,” Zara said. “Christine is already in enough trouble today.”
“Why?” I asked sitting up and wincing at the pain from Sir.
“She was ironing for the party tomorrow night—you know there’s going to be a ball here—and the iron got too hot. Christine burnt her hand, but worse—Christine burnt the tablecloth. Madam was very upset.”
“Where is she?” I asked.
Zara shrugged her shoulders. “The girl that was here when we arrived just disappeared one night altogether. All that was left of her was this statue of the Virgin Mary. I kept it to remember what she said to me.”
I stared into Zara’s eyes and she did her best to calm me.
“What did she say, Zara?”
“She said, the soul is stronger than the body.”
I nodded.
“We have to be strong, Beauty. For each other.”
The door to our room flew open. “Get downstairs and help to serve dinner. We’re short handed tonight.”
Zara and I both stood and I limped toward the door. “What’s the matter with you girl?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You better quit that limping or Madam will be up here to beat you.”
I looked to the floor and nodded. What she was really telling me was not to let Madam know that her husband had raped me. I straightened my back and stuck out my shoulders. I wouldn’t be beaten.
Serving dinner, I did my best not to make eye contact with anyone at the table, especially Sir. I wanted to finish my work as quickly as possible and crawl in to bed. I wanted to pretend as if the day had never happened.
“Zara,” Sir said looking up from his finished plate of food. “You are needed in the garden tonight after dinner.”
“Sir?” Zara questioned his statement.
“You heard me. Just do as you’re told and keep your mouth shut.”
Glancing at Zara from across the table I blinked, offering her the most stoic look I could muster. She was right. We had to persevere. If I could figure a way out of Rosewood, I could certainly figure a way out of here. I just didn’t know exactly where here was.
I cleared the table and watched through the window as the man who’d picked me up from Rosewood dragged Zara by the arm into the courtyard, out among the roses. Each time I carried another plate or another cup and saucer into the kitchen, I gazed out the window at Zara—keeping an eye on her as best I could.
“What are you looking at?” the cook asked. “You best keep your eyes down. Do you hear me? Ain’t nothing out there got anything to do with you.”
I made the trek back through the swinging door to the dining area and heard Zara scream. “Nooo!”
Rushing back to the kitchen I watched Zara fall to her knees in hysterics. “Why?” she cried out. “Why?”
The cook pushed me away from the window. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll walk away right now.”
Turning my shoulders with her hands, she shoved me back through the doorway and out of the kitchen. When I’d finished with my duties, I was told to go to back to my quarters.
I strained my neck looking out the window into the garden for Zara. It was dark and I knew it had to be cold outside. I also knew she didn’t have a coat. Closing the door to our room, I noticed Christine’s doll in the floor. I picked it up and placed it in a box in the closet. Who knew what might happen if Madam found it.
Staring out the window of the third floor, I caught a glimpse of the courtyard as the clouds parted and the full moon cast light into the garden. It was empty and I prayed Zara and Christine would be back soon. It was easier when we were together.
I laid my weary body down on the bed. I wanted to wait for them, but my eyes were protesting and with each blink I found it harder to keep them open.
A beam of light shone through the window. I sat up in bed, startled. Still in my dress and apron from last night’s dinner, I looked around for Christine and Zara. The beds were empty. Rushing to the window, I glanced below into the garden. Freshly tilled dirt surrounded two new rose bushes and I found Zara sitting on a stone bench rocking her body back and forth.
Giving myself a quick glance in my mirror, I smoothed my hair and pinched my cheeks. I hurried down the staircase trying my best to remain unnoticed. Zara was right—it was best to be a ghost in the house. Do your work and be as inconspicuous as possible.
I hurried through the first floor, already filled with flowers for tonight’s ball and out the kitchen door into the courtyard. Not wanting to shout, I rushed to Zara’s side and threw my arms around her stiff and frigid frame. “What are you doing out here?” I asked in a loud whisper. “You’re going to catch your death. Let me get you inside.”
Zara’s tears were frozen to her ruddy face, her cheeks chapped from the wind and cold. Her lips were blue and I worried that maybe I was too late. No one could sit in the wet and cold and stave off illness too.
“Zara,” I called to her. “Come inside.”
“She’s gone.”
“Who’s gone? Zara, who?”
She stared at the earth beneath our feet. “Christine. God,” Zara began as she looked to the sky and new tears ran down her red face. “I was always the one to give her a hard time. To yell at her for being annoying—but this…this is…”
“Where is Christine, Zara? Where is she?”
Zara’s shaking hand pointed beneath our feet. “They chopped her into pieces, packed her in bags and made me bury her right here last night. They don’t want anyone to know that she’s dead.”
Clasping my hand over my mouth. “Who did this Zara?”
“They did it,” she said rocking back and forth. “She wasn’t fast enough or smart enough for them so they killed her. And no one cares.”
I felt the tears fall from my eyes as I held Zara. We cried together. “That’s not true. We care. We care about each other. We’ll take care of each other.”
22
ELIZA
“A few years ago, Dr. Gold had me drive him to the Rosewood Center on the outskirts of Baltimore. The center had been closed down after mountains of c
omplaints and the state was auctioning off the various pieces of equipment, or basically anything anyone might want from the place. Dr. Gold was looking for something specific.”
“And?” I asked anxious for Lester to get on with it. “Did he find what he wanted?”
Lester shook his head. “No.”
“What was he looking for?” I asked the question and then realized I knew the answer. “He was looking for something of hers, right?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?” In my mind she’d drawn more beautiful pictures—something Edmund wanted—maybe a self-portrait.
“It was odd. I was told to scour the auction for a small frame with no picture. Dr. Gold said it was hard to explain, but that I would know it when I happened upon it. I never did.”
The room began to spin suddenly and I found myself inhaling over and over without the ability to exhale.
“Miss Lovelace?” Lester’s voice called to me from a tunnel far away as I mentally slipped away from the room.
With two jerks of my shoulders I blinked hard and found Lester in front of me—in my face. “Miss Lovelace, can you hear me?”
“Oh no.” I mumbled the words as I found a foothold in the real world again. “Lester, I’ve got to go,” I said as I rushed to the front door, stumbling along the way.
Chasing after me, he shouted. “Wait!”
“I’ll be in touch!” I called out the words over my shoulder and was in the Jeep and driving away doing my best to focus on the road in front of me before taking a real breath. My hands trembled on the steering wheel and I ran every possibly scenario through my head.
Dialing Ray, I listened to his iPhone ring. “Pick up, pick up pick up,” I whispered in muted desperation. When the call went to voicemail I knew who I needed to call next. Dialing quickly, she answered on the first ring. “Girl, I have been trying to get in touch with you. Magda wants to come back to your house. Is it okay if we drop by tonight?”
“Jess,” I began, ignoring her question. “I know who’s in my house. I know who’s in my house!”
