by L C Kincaide
Emma paused in the open doorway. She didn’t remember what year her mother stopped using it. For the longest time, the door remained closed, and they spent time in the dining room for meals, the rest of the stay divided between the parlor and the drawing room. It seemed a shame.
Stalling on the threshold with the lantern clutched in hand, she dreaded going in, but someone — Ivy? — had beckoned her there, so it was foolish not to. Hadn’t she been asking for a sign? Now that she had a response, her nerves quivered at what waited for her, though she found some consolation in knowing that nothing terrible ever transpired in this particular room.
Far from the cheerful brightness of long ago afternoons, the salon awaited in a silent gloom, the large space illuminated by only a pair of wall sconces above the white marble fireplace and several lit candlesticks on the Chippendale sideboard among the framed pictures.
Emma stepped further inside, hoping to find a clue. A candle flickered on the sideboard, then another, and Emma crossed the room to investigate. Most of the frames held pictures of Everdon ancestors, the elders who lived before the advent of photography were represented in pencil and ink drawings, some further embellished with a watercolor wash. Emma did the unthinkable and picked one up at random. Had she made this attempt in her childhood, her mother would have had a heart attack, so she never had a chance to see any of them properly.
She peered at an austere gentleman wearing a high starched collar and cravat. Dark-haired and black-eyed, he was not Mason Everdon, but most likely Reese Everdon, Mason’s grandfather. Emma grinned to herself thinking about John and his opinion of the fashion of the day. She found Mason and Amelia’s wedding photo, and another of a group attired in their late Victorian finery. Some faces she recognized, others she guessed at.
She picked up a rather extravagant and heavy silver frame from the center of the arrangement. The subject was maybe twenty-years old, her likeness rendered in ink and watercolor. Emma brought it closer to the light to better see the script. The name was Margaret, dated, 1835. I’ll be damned! Emma stared at the picture. If not for the hairstyle of elaborate loops on either side of a center part and crowned with a topknot, the young woman bore a striking resemblance to her! The hair color was a shade darker than hers, but the eyes were light and the features eerily familiar. She returned and found another drawing of Margaret wearing a bonnet with a satin ribbon tied under her chin, and a wedding picture of her and Reese. She would never have imagined this face belonged to the woman whose likeness of her older self hung in the portrait gallery. Is that what Emma had to look forward to? Is that why she had been drawn to this room, to have a peek at her future old self? Gee, thanks! She set it back among the others and turning to face the dim room waited for what else was in store for her.
“Okay. Is that what you wanted me to see — the elders and that I resemble Margaret?” Margaret, the killer. Is that why mum never mentioned it, or did she simply forget?
Behind her, a candle flame snuffed out. Emma spun around at the change in light as another flame blew out followed by another until all the tapers’ flames were extinguished leaving only curls of white smoke drifting over the sideboard.
I guess the show is over, Emma concluded, and perplexed, she started toward the door. A small vase tipped over beside her on the side table and crashed to the floorboards. She cried out, both startled and horrified. Nothing was allowed to break in this room, but even as the thought crossed her mind, the beautiful ormolu clock slid off the mantel and shattered on the marble hearth below. She spun around in time to witness a crystal vase slipping off another table closely followed by a falling lamp. In the shadows at the far end, more objects cracked, burst and disintegrated. Something hit her back and turning to look, a silver frame glinted at her feet and another bounced beside it. Emma whirled around to see the entire collection, including the silver candlesticks, slide along as if swept by an invisible arm, tinkling as it edged off the sideboard and hung in the air, defying gravity. Emma blinked in disbelief as the pictures and candlesticks hovered and shimmered before taking aim at her. Her veins coursing with adrenaline, she took to the door and shot out into the hall. Behind her, the double doors slammed shut, and not a second later, an armload of silver and glass crashed and exploded against the wood.
Emma didn’t waste time getting to the safety of the parlor, and once there, she wedged the settee firmly against the door, and further pushed the low table in front of that. She burrowed in her sleeping bag. What was all that about? So, she bore a resemblance to Margaret. What did that have to do with anything? What was Margaret’s role in all of this? First her wheelchair and now the pictures? Or was it the room itself? Good luck trying to figure this one out. She was not a psychic. What made her think she could do this? To make matters worse, if the salon really was trashed, her mother would kill her. From the folds of the sleeping bag, Emma watched the flames lick the wood.
SUNDAY
~*~
Already three am, Elinor was still wide awake, which was not an unusual state for her at this hour, but on this occasion, troubled thoughts concerning Emma were keeping sleep at bay. Perhaps she had been to hard on her, but being well aware of what lay in store for her daughter, she had no choice. Emma’s life would not be an easy one, one made more difficult with certain obligations, she herself had to fulfill since her own father died.
She loved both of her children, but Emma was her Everdon daughter. If she could have spared her the family legacy, she would have. It was not up to her and never had been, just as she had no say in the matter as it pertained to her own life. In her fashion, Emma had resisted her fate with an irresponsible lifestyle and a reckless attitude. Until the recent trouble started. Now, she was in over her head and acting foolishly in other ways.
Perhaps if she’d had Emma earlier, but given the situation, Elinor married later, and she considered herself extremely fortunate to have found a man who was open-minded and accepting as Peter Stuart had been. Then he was taken from them much too soon. She could at least rest assured that family circumstances were not involved. His had been a natural, if untimely death, and she missed him tremendously. There were not many like him, and even fewer in the current generation. She suspected Emma sensed it too and seemed to make no effort where her personal relationships were concerned. Regrettably, her closest bond had been with Ivy Wylmot, and her erratic behavior and emotional fragility were the result.
When the day was early and the dawn far off, thoughts like these prowled her mind. Elinor pondered the situation. Being the one most familiar with the Everdon legacy, Godfrey being a close second, she had been contemplating the disturbing possibility that they had all overlooked a crucial element. Whatever this was, it was targeting the Ruskins and the Langstones in particular, who were technically Everdons, and subjecting them to violence.
Dear Theo. The burden he had to bear. Elinor hoped she was not next in line, given the way Emma had been behaving this past year. And now, her daughter went into hiding. Perhaps she should have told her about Matthew much sooner.
~*~
Sleep had barely claimed her when music drifted into her dreams gradually rousing her. Emma’s eyes opened to a flickering fire, so she couldn’t have slept long. Where would music be coming from? She turned her head thinking it must be part of a dream, but her eyes were wide open, and violins faintly played in the distance. Apparently, the house too was awake and enticing her to come out. Emma cringed at leaving her makeshift sanctuary again, but nothing in the manor happened for no reason, though she was still working on what any of it meant. She got up and reluctantly unbarricaded the door and inched it open.
The central hall was cloaked in darkness as she squeezed through the narrow opening and followed the music that drifted from the ballroom. Her trusty lantern in hand, Emma approached the closed French doors. Last year, the magnificent room had been trashed by the wind that tore through
the blown-open windows and scattered everything around that was lighter than a piano.
A thread of light escaped from underneath the doors. If she were to open them, what would meet her eyes — a once grand room littered with debris and remnants of a party gone bad? She waited in front of the doors and listened. At least she didn’t hear voices. Maybe she was sleepwalking again.
Contemplating her options, she could take a peek inside, or return to the parlor. Since she was already out here, she may as well have a quick look and then go back to her sleeping bag. She reached for the door handle and with the slightest push, it slowly opened. At first, it was hard to see what was there, then it brightened to reveal more. Emma blinked in the doorway still unsure if she was dreaming or whether she was wide awake.
What drew her attention was the parquet floor, clean and gleaming and free of leaves. The furniture too was arranged in its usual groupings, and as the room illuminated further, Emma’s gaze was drawn upward to the spectacular chandelier, sparkling and perfect, suspended from the coffered ceiling as it had been for generations.
How can this be? She must be hallucinating, Emma decided remembering her mother’s cryptic words about someone maintaining the illusion. Unless a crew had been in here recently to restore the room, somebody was keeping it looking new, for she had been right here the night when the same chandelier crashed to the floor. As her gaze took in the rich wood wainscoted walls and pedestals bearing cascading potted ferns, sweet violin music played by invisible musicians wafted around her, something classical, but not a waltz.
She took a tentative step inside and jerked startled when the fire unexpectedly blazed to life in the fireplace. No one else was in the room, yet she felt invisible eyes on her. Loath to go farther in, she waited, her body stiff with apprehension, alert for flying objects. Unless she was dreaming, the party was on again, and she was the only invitee, gaping in the doorway attired in woollen socks and baggy sweats.
“Ivy, are you here?” She called out tentatively.
The log in the grate sputtered and Emma twitched as she waited for Ivy’s response.
“Not this again.” She muttered under her breath. “Why am I here? What’s the point in seeing this?”
Her eyes scanned the deserted ballroom, and as she was turning away, the air before her shimmered, and she touched a hand to her head as a dizziness turned it. Emma’s brow furrowed, confused by the changing scene — people had materialized out of nowhere. Men and women in elegant dress from a hundred years past came into view and grouped together in conversation at the drinks cabinet, a pair chatted at the hearthside, ladies gathered on the settees and chairs while others drew near the windows and beneath the chandelier. She blinked, and the vision blurred as if she was observing the gathering through a rain-streaked window. A woman broke from the group and approached her. Her facial features were yet indistinct, but Emma recognized the stunning garnet-colored gown and auburn hair.
“Ivy?”
The woman drew nearer, and as she did, her face came into focus and warmed in a smile, the same smile she remembered so well.
“Is it you?”
Ivy’s eyes held hers. She didn’t appear to be distressed nor trapped in a hellish situation. She stopped before her close enough to touch. Her eyes never leaving Emma’s, she inclined her head.
“I d… don’t understand.” Emma stammered. “I thought you were trapped and angry with me.”
Ivy’s hand alighted on Emma’s, and the room vanished in a dazzling burst of white light. No longer in the ballroom, nor anywhere recognizable, she was aware of a lightness of being in what could only be described as an electric mist, for the energy surrounding her shimmered and sparkled. Gone was the heavy burden of guilt she had worn the past year and the weighty sadness of missing her friend. In their place, she found laughter and joy, and more than anything, love. Like the scent of a summer garden in full bloom, it filled her and surrounded her in its sweet fragrance and warmth.
Again, Ivy’s smile appeared before her astonished eyes, and the ballroom gradually came into focus. Her friend’s form shifted, her face undergoing a change as if another set of features superimposed over the first, very alike yet slightly different, appearing as Amelia. From behind Amelia, someone stepped forward, a dark-haired man none other than Mason Everdon. He stopped at Amelia’s side, and she placed a gentle hand on his arm. Only their fluctuating appearance gave away the fact they were not real flesh and blood people, could not be.
As Emma faced them, Amelia’s eyes filled with love and gratitude, and Mason’s eyes as dark and inscrutable as in the portrait expressed a softness she had never seen, and a smile tugged at his lips. This must be a dream, or Ivy was telling her she is Amelia, who has returned to her husband in another dimension, or something like it. Her head swam. Hadn’t the medium said that only a veil separates us from the other side of reality? Was she looking into it now? Was Ivy pulling back the veil for her to see?
Without warning, a great force shoved her backward and as she hit the door frame, a candelabrum crashed in front of her where she had been standing only a second ago. Gasping with the wind knocked out of her, Emma blinked into a room cast in darkness and silence. Gone were the fine guests and the cozy fire and potted plants. The furniture hunkered in black shapes at the outer fringe of her lamplight, and debris and crystals littered the dusty parquet floor. Emma backed her way out of the room, and crossing the threshold, the double doors immediately slammed in her face, the resounding echo disturbing the stillness.
Emma’s mind reeled with the effort to understand what was happening. The woman-Spirit she had encountered moments ago was Ivy, she had no doubt of that, for she had felt her presence not just all around her but within her. Her friend had shown her she was happy where she was with Mason, not angry, as Emma had been led to believe and what she had expected to find. Ivy had not drawn her here to be freed, for she was not trapped. And yet, something had just tried to kill her, and if Ivy had not pushed her away, she would have been hurt just as Ivy herself had narrowly missed the same fate a year ago.
A terrible dread passed through her, realizing what she had not considered earlier — something else was lying in wait for her. Whatever its origin, it was a malevolent presence, angry and vengeful, and the awareness of it chilled her further in the already cool hall.
A new sound turned her head — a metallic clang echoed from the upper floor followed by rattling. Emma turned up the hall where the sound grew louder as the old elevator descended. Oh God! She panicked at the thought of who or what may be in it and ran up the hall passing the closed salon door, then the recess of the elevator shaft. Two seconds later, the cage came to rest with another resounding clang followed by the grating of the retractable door drawing open. The skylight revealed a hint of pale pre-dawn light that filtered down into the otherwise dark central hall and Emma waited frozen to the spot and stared into the gloom.
A familiar squeaking sounded from the corridor, and the empty wheelchair shot out of the darkness and straight at her. Emma screamed, and rediscovering the use of her legs, she bolted for the parlor, risking a glance over her shoulder as the wheels caught the edge of the carpet, and the whole contraption flipped topsy-turvy.
She dashed into the room, and gritting her teeth against the throbbing pain in her arm, she pushed the settee against the door and threw herself in it. Trembling with cold and fear, she grabbed a cushion and clutched it close to her chest. Her makeshift bed on the floor as she had left it, the cooler with her provisions nearby, an empty juice bottle on top, all appeared incongruous in this setting. Everything in her screamed danger and to get away, and she was tempted, but if she did, wasn’t that putting everyone else at risk? Robert was already in the hospital, no doubt remembering his dead brother. What choice had she but to stay and finish it, release whoever or whatever was trapped, but she had no idea of who it was nor what to do
. She curled onto her side and cried into the brocade cushion, realizing she too was trapped.
~*~
John awakened from a dreamless sleep, a vague sense of unease gnawing at his nerves. It was still early judging from the faint light pressing through the curtains, and he was already wide awake, and prepared for the day.
Godfrey found him a half hour later sipping coffee and peering at his laptop screen at the breakfast bar of the expansive kitchen. Painted white with glass-fronted cabinet doors and marble counters, it was the most modern space in his childhood home.
“What are you poring over so early on a Sunday morning?” His father asked pouring himself a cup of coffee, still jet lagged from his trip.
“I found pictures from last year’s Weekend.”
“Hmmm.” Godfrey muttered. “What are you hoping to see? Your sister mentioned you’ve been spending a lot of time studying family history.”
John turned to face him. “Since everything started, I was looking for clues. Unless it’s all coincidental, something is behind what happened to Robert and Grace, and what’s been happening to Carrie and to you and mom.”
“I wish I could say it was a coincidence.” The old man glanced around him to make sure they were alone. “It’s Emma.”
John raised a quizzical eyebrow. “She told me she’s been having nightmares for months about her friend, but how could that affect the rest of us?”
“Your mother learned from Elinor that Emma’s been to a psychic and raised her friend’s Spirit.” He said confidentially.
