by L C Kincaide
“Oh, yes, poor Robert. I chatted briefly with Theo. Is there anything new with him?”
“I gather you don’t know. You’d better ask Godfrey to the telephone. He needs to hear what is happening.”
~*~
A long silence ensued following Rachel’s impromptu call to Mabel, and the subsequent sharing of the taped session as it wasn’t heard before.
No longer able to contain herself, Rachel asked. “So, what do you think?”
“Your friend has drawn a malevolent Spirit to her.” Mabel said matter-of-factly.
“I don’t know what that means. Is she in danger?”
Another pause indicated that she was mulling this over, at least that was Rachel’s hope. If the medium had no answers, then no one did.
“She initiated contact with the entity, invited it, in other words. Now, she has to deal with it.”
“But it was the other way around.” Rachel argued against a frightening scenario. “Emma has been having nightmares about her friend coming to her and asking for help.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the Spirit she invoked, is not that of her friend. It holds her accountable for its state and wants to use her for its own purpose.”
Rachel tried to wrap her mind around what the medium was saying. “But I still don’t understand why you say she invited the Spirit, when it came after her?”
“Let me put it to you another way. Say, for example, somebody knocks on your door, even talks to you through the closed door, unless you open it, they will stay on the other side, maybe for a long time and become a nuisance. But once you open the door and allow them in…”
“You’re stuck with them.”
“In a sense yes, until you either ask them to leave or give them what they want, and they go away of their own accord.”
“Oh, my God! You’re not saying we need an Exorcist?” She couldn’t help herself and caught Matthew’s stunned expression from the corner of her eye.
“No, no. Nothing like that. This is no demonic entity, we are talking about, but a very tortured Spirit trapped in another realm appealing to the one person who has the power to change its situation. Or so, it believes your friend has the ability.”
“Is Emma in danger?”
“If she stays away from where the Spirit is trapped.”
“So, if we come back, you may be able to undo this?”
“Possibly, but no guarantees. We don’t know who it is or what it wants with her, or why it chose her in the first place. Unless she was in a vulnerable state, which would have made it easy for the Spirit to latch on to.”
Vulnerable state? Poor Emma! She’s been tortured for months given her remorse over the loss of her friend. “That makes sense, but it is possible to undo?”
“Yes.”
Hearing Mabel’s optimism, as vague as it was, gave her hope.
“Well, I’m relieved we don’t have to get a priest!” Matthew exclaimed pouring himself a drink when Rachel ended the bizarre conversation.
“Aren’t you the least bit worried? Damn! Still no answer. I’m calling Elinor to see if she’s heard from her.”
“Don’t.” Matthew protested, but it was too late.
~*~
Done at last! John rubbed his strained eyes then rose to his feet and stretched stiff muscles. Poring over the rest of Victoria’s diaries had been an undertaking and a gradual decline from obsessive love to unprecedented jealousy, outraged pride and finally, a downward spiral into despair, the last entry referring to ME in 1904, a year following Amelia’s death.
So deeply mired in her obsession of him, Victoria didn’t have the patience to wait the proper two years of deep mourning, and made a bold and ill-timed move on Mason. She had arrived uninvited, was shown to the salon where she waited for the heartbroken widower, and threw herself at him. Not her words, which were effusive, the recapture of the incident both dramatic and poignant, but John’s summary. If this was not the stuff of nightmares for a guy, he didn’t know what was. On the one hand, he sympathized for her loss, but she had only herself to blame for not having the sense to move on, let alone force the issue so brazenly. Hers had been a delusion that very likely led to her untimely death. Her tragic love life concluded, he sighed relieved to be back among the living and the relatively sane.
After a minute or so of working the kinks out of his body, he wandered to the desk and scanned the many files in the Everdon Manor folder. The last file had been uploaded soon after their last Weekend of almost a year ago — as a matter of fact, it was a year since they had all arrived and were settling in, starched stand-up collars and all. But it could have been worse, the original incident occurring in an earlier era with the men having to re-enact the Weekend attired in hose and breeches, and possibly while wearing wigs with ponytails!
To make sure he had missed nothing, he clicked on the last folder icon. Once he cast the despairing images from Victoria’s journal out of his mind, he would put the whole thing behind him.
A series of pictures taken from the croquet match came up. That at least had been an enjoyable day spent outdoors on the expansive lawn and in almost normal clothes. Except for Emma, who was suffering with a headache. He grinned at the memory of her, a mass of ruffles fluttering in the breeze as she gamely swung her mallet. Clearly, the accumulation of the annual festivities was wearing on her, especially that year, but he had to respect her perseverance. Emma was a good sport, and not a bad croquet player, all things considered.
He clicked on an image of her squinting across the lawn in Ivy’s direction. Her friend had not been particularly good at the game and was eliminated early on and had spent her time observing the players on her own. His eyes narrowed at the poor quality of this one, the background appearing splotchy. He scanned through more pictures taken from different angles and found most in perfect condition. Only a handful were corrupted. Maybe he’ll get dad a new camera for Christmas, but he’d have a closer look at the images to make sure it wasn’t something simple like sun flares. He opened his laptop and waited for the folder to copy over to study them later.
Frances clicked off following a brief conversation with Elinor, who, as usual, was full of histrionics. All that talk about a séance. The one undisputed fact, however, was that something was happening to all of them. That poor Robert was laid up in a hospital, very nearly killed in the same manner as his twin four years before him, was no coincidence. Grace too had missed a terrible misfortune herself, never mind what has befallen her own family, shattered nerves all around! Not one to dwell on omens, she could not dispel the feeling they were being toyed with, even warned. But why? And by whom? Because Emma’s guilt feelings had gotten the better of her? Had they known the answer, it still didn’t begin to explain the current situation. Now her level-headed son was mired in their collective history. How she had hoped last year it was the end of their prolonged tribulations. The botheration… redecorating the large room would have soothed her nerves, but she had just done that two seasons ago having moved away from floral greens to tawny beige with black accents.
Bone weary from their recent trip, she looked up to find her son finally join her in the living room.
“Emma’s disappeared.” Frances announced.
“Disappeared? Why do you say that?”
“Have you spoken with her recently? No one has seen her nor have they been able to reach her since yesterday.”
“She is a grown woman and can do as she pleases. She need not report her whereabouts to anyone.” John said rising to Emma’s defense, though he admitted to having similar concerns, if not aloud.
“Really, John. How can you be so blasé? The girl is at the crux of what is happening to us all! Before long, Elinor and you will be similarly affected, and there is nothing we can do to prevent it, nor can we do anything to avoid more misfo
rtune befalling us!” Frances swallowed a gulp of air.
“I will call, and if I don’t reach her, I’ll try again in the morning. It’s only been a day. There’s no need to panic.” He said to placate her, surprised to find his usually calm mother in a frazzled state. Her exhaustion must be the main reason for it.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’m exhausted from all this.” She flapped her hand. “I think I’ll join your father upstairs, it’s late.”
“Good idea.”
“And you should get some sleep too. You’ve been cooped up in the study too long and look rather weary, yourself. Are you staying the night?”
“Yes. Just tonight. Has Carrie gone to bed?”
“She has, poor dear. I can’t imagine how she got through it all. I hope it will pass soon. This family has been through enough already.”
“We all have.” He agreed climbing the stairs with her.
~*~
What was she doing here looking at portraits again, Margaret Everdon’s in particular? She recalled being here earlier, then going to her room, but that was hours ago. Was she dreaming? It was hard to tell anymore. The old woman gave no reply, and she made to go back down the corridor when a sound stopped her. Emma’s heartbeat quickened at the pronounced squeaking, and she turned to locate its source, which was coming from the abandoned wing. Impossible, she argued against the notion, knowing full well it was closed due to a fire, unsafe and inaccessible, yet even as these thoughts asserted themselves, a faint light spilled from that direction. A moment later, an enormous shadow flung itself against the wall, distorted and growing smaller as it neared.
Emma watched transfixed trying to determine what she was looking at, for the silhouette was both familiar and not, bearing the misshapen contours of a wheelchair with two large wheels attached near the front of its body, a footrest jutting out. Emma waited to see who was directing it, for someone had to be, but the small rear wheel came into view with no one at the handles pushing it forward. It was moving of its own accord!
In two more squeaks, it rounded the corner and terrified, Emma fled back toward the connecting corridor, the runaway wheelchair in deadly pursuit. The squeaking became a high-pitched grind as it bore down upon her and Emma’s legs buckled when the footrest caught her sharply against her calves and sent her falling into the seat. Slamming against the high cane backrest, air gasped out of her lungs as the contraption rushed her forward, careening around the corner and into the connecting corridor. She took hold of the wheels trying to stop, but the wood burned against her palms, barely slowing her progress.
Casting a backward glance, she caught a vague impression of a hand on the handle — so someone was there! To her horror, a figure wearing a garnet-colored gown was standing on the landing, facing the stairs, and the wheelchair was heading straight for her back — Ivy! Her blood rushing in her ears, Emma again took hold of the wheels and gripped the wood even as it tore at her skin.
She cried out, but the call died trapped in her throat, and still, the chair shot toward its unsuspecting victim, intent on running her down. She screamed her final warning, it too silent and useless. Having come upon her, the footrest made hard contact with Ivy’s legs, and through the gaps of her raw fingers, Emma watched her pitch forward and fall down, down down…
Emma bolted upright, the scream dying on her lips in the darkened room. She was trembling, the image of Ivy free-falling down the stairs fresh in her mind. Why would she dream that? Unless this was Ivy’s way of letting her know she held her responsible for her death, which made no sense. According to her dream, it’s as if she had killed her, but that happened to Amelia, not Ivy.
She should have had a nightcap. At least when she was drinking, the nightmares were less dramatic. She raised herself to get up and fell out of bed. Bewildered, Emma cradled her sore arm.
“What the hell!” She blinked around her. She had fallen to the floor from a bed when she had gone to sleep in a sleeping bag on a four-inch foam mattress! Where was she?
She scrabbled on her hands and knees in the dark, her aching arm reaching for familiar objects. She touched the leg of a nightstand and followed its contours until her fingers reached a lamp. The turn of the knob didn’t bring light — of course it wouldn’t — the electricity wasn’t on! She stood up and peered into the gloom trying to determine how she got there from the parlor. The only explanation being sleepwalking, she hoped it was back to her own room, and with her arms outstretched, she inched toward where the door should be.
Once in the hallway, she followed the wall with her hands until it came to the corner at the intersecting open gallery. Her relief at confirming she was in her bedroom evaporated when she remembered the horrible dream. It had been so real, she expected to find the wheelchair parked at the top of the stairs waiting for her, but there was no sign of it. Straining to see in the faint light spilling from the parlor, her eyes searched the foot of the stairs for a body. Thankfully, no corpse lay sprawled on the rug. Her hand gripped the bannister, and on unsteady legs, she descended the staircase and hurried to the parlor where she slammed the door and pushed the settee against it to discourage future roaming. Even in her sleep, she had managed to move the chair aside! She tossed two more logs onto a dwindling fire and crawled back into her cocoon, her arm throbbing.
Why was Ivy showing her these scenes? They had nothing to do with either of them as far as she knew. She had come here to help her friend, not for a hundred plus year old trip down memory lane, and someone else’s memories at that!
The logs caught, and the flames warmed the room. Her trembling diminished though it wasn’t triggered by the cold. How long was it since she arrived? Several hours by now was her estimation, and all she had to show for it was flickering sconce lights, two clocks chiming, wandering around in her sleep and a hurting arm. In other words, nothing transpired that was out of the ordinary, for this place, anyway. Ivy had not tried to contact her, which left her both relieved and perplexed. With all that was happening, to the Langstones in particular, the summons to come here seemed urgent, and she hoped Ivy would make an appearance sooner rather than later. Her plans didn’t include staying more than a couple of nights.
She squirmed inside her sleeping bag for several minutes, restless and growing irritable. What was the point in even being here if she was going to wander around in her sleep and hide in the parlor? If Ivy was making no effort to come to her, then she had to do it. An adage came to mind, something about Mohamed and a mountain, but in her present state, she wasn’t about to ponder the rest of it.
With sleep a lost cause, Emma scrambled out of the sleeping bag and pulled on her warm woollen socks and a fleece hoodie. Using her good arm, which probably wouldn’t stay feeling good if she kept this up, she dragged the settee away from the door just enough to squeeze by into the central hall. She held her lantern high and gazed around the cavernous space. On a moonless night, all was cast into darkness.
“Ivy!” Her voice reverberated among the pillars. “Ivy, are you here?” Holding her breath, Emma waited, but Ivy wasn’t answering her calls. “If you can hear me, let me know. I’ve come to help, but I need you to tell me how.”
The echoing words dying away, it occurred to her this was a problem. She had no idea what to do and should have consulted with Mabel before rushing out on her crusade to liberate Ivy from her entrapment, thereby saving them all. Rachel was better suited to the cause than she was. If no answer came, she was prepared to slink back to the parlor and drive herself home in the morning. At this rate, she may not even wait until then, but what about the others? Were they still in danger? Only mum and John had been spared, but that was hours ago. Anything could have happened in that time. Scowling in the chilled cavern, Emma grew increasingly cold and frustrated. Why have her come out here only to be ignored?
“Ivy!”
Still nothing.
Emma was aware her next words may put her at risk, but she couldn’t just stand here until morning.
“If you don’t give me a sign, I’m leaving. I mean it. I will take my stuff and go home!”
Down the hall, door hinges creaked and light leaked into the corridor on the far side in the west wing of the manor. Emma started, her shaking lantern jittering the shadow beside her.
When she was a little girl, she used to pretend with her dolls that she was a fancy lady holding a tea party in the lovely salon. Pale afternoon light would stream through a row of west-facing sash windows into the only room in the manor primarily intended for the ladies’ enjoyment. Gentlemen were permitted to join their wives and sisters for a cup of tea, but were not encouraged to linger. Smoking any sort of material was strictly forbidden, and only Sherry was served as far as alcohol went. It never occurred to Elinor to change the rules.
In soft powder blue, the salon was also the brightest room in the house, furnished with settees, delicate Queen Anne chairs and comfortable chaise-longues upholstered in creamy velvet. Ivory drapes flanked all the windows cascading to the floor like waterfalls. It was an enchanting room for not only its brightness, but for the many objects in crystal, porcelain, and silver that glinted and sparkled from the sideboards and end tables. Fragile hand-painted porcelain plates adorned the walls along with subtle watercolor paintings of floral studies. An entire sideboard was devoted to a stunning display of pictures in silver frames, and at a certain time of day, the sun gleamed off the edges and cast their reflections upon the blue ceiling like the palest of stars.
To Emma, this was a magical room, and she was only allowed to enter providing one of the women was with her to supervise. There were simply too many fragile items that stood to be damaged by a careless young hand.
