by L C Kincaide
Rachel cringed. “That’s not very comforting.”
He opened the door for her and tossed their bag in the back seat, then settled behind the wheel.
“Sorry, but I won’t lie to you. I don’t know what she’s gotten herself into or how to get her out.” He noted her crestfallen expression. “But I will do whatever I can.”
She squeezed his hand and offered a wan smile. “I know you will.”
“We should go.”
They each took a fortifying breath for the task ahead, and Matthew turned the key in the ignition.
Nothing happened. He turned it again.
“What’s wrong?” Rachel asked wide-eyed. “Is it the battery?”
When he tried again, he didn’t hear the telltale, tic-tic-tic that indicated a dead battery, so it wasn’t that.
“No. It’s just… dead.”
“But how?”
“I don’t know.” He reached down and popped the hood. “I’ll have a look. It was fine yesterday.”
He propped the hood on the supporting arm and examined the many engine components. From his layman’s knowledge of auto mechanics, nothing seemed to be missing, leaking, cut or fried. But then, if it was an electrical problem, he wouldn’t know by looking.
“Why don’t you try starting it?”
Rachel climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. Nothing. Terrific!
“What do we do now?” She called from the car.
“We’ll get a rental.”
“Matt, it will take forever!”
“What else can we do?” He dropped the hood. “Besides, John is on his way.”
“Is he?”
~*~
John just cleared the city limits after taking the ramp off the freeway and dropped his speed. The dashboard clock said he still had a ninety-minute drive ahead of him, and he sped up. With every mile, his apprehension grew, and he turned on the radio to distract himself. Five seconds later, he switched it off, more anxious than he was before. Instead, he replayed Emma’s tape in his mind, trying to make sense of the bizarre session. Whose Spirit waited trapped in the manor willing to cause them all harm, and maybe even kill? In his family, only he had been spared any direct upset. Whatever this entity was, it was bent on gaining freedom and vengeance, not necessarily in that order. It had been clever too, manipulating Emma to get its way, and it angered him to think how she had suffered all these months on her own.
He considered the remaining Everdons, but none stood out as suspects. That left just one chilling possibility, a Ruskin who despised all Everdons, Emma in particular. Only one fit that bill, and it wasn’t finished with her yet. He craned his neck and pushed hard on the accelerator. A horn blared as he shot past three cars and a sight-seeing bus.
~*~
The woman behind the rental counter was beaming and in the middle of wishing them a nice day when they pushed through the door and ran for their vehicle idling just outside. A lanky young man with a pockmarked complexion hopped out of the way as Matthew barrelled past him.
“Sorry. We’re in a hurry.” He dove into the driver’s seat.
Rachel was still fastening her seatbelt when Matthew shifted gears into Drive and instead of the car shooting forward, the engine died. Matthew swore loudly and slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “I don’t believe this!”
He turned the key and nothing happened.
Rachel frowned. “That’s one hell of a coincidence.”
“We’ll get another car.” He said decisively.
Rachel gave him a sidelong look. “Okay.”
On their way back to the rental office, they passed the young attendant who had been observing totally perplexed. He gave the car a suspicious glance and followed them inside.
“I’m very sorry sir, but you’ll have to fill in the forms again.” The woman informed him through a strained smile.
“Oh, dear God.” Rachel muttered.
~*~
The wheelchair jounced off the third step and shot onto the rug when Emma revived and bolted for the front door. Skidding the last couple of feet, she grabbed hold of the handle and yanked hard. It didn’t budge. Of course, she had locked herself in the night before! She turned the knob and again pulled on the handle, but it still didn’t move. “Come on!” She grasped it with both hands and rattled it back and forth to no avail. The chair was moving behind her, then it slammed into something other than her body and broke into several pieces, some skittering across the marble floor beside her. She turned the knob again making sure the lock had been properly disengaged, and still the door wouldn’t cooperate.
“Open, damn it!”
She put every ounce of strength into trying to get it unstuck, her hair whipping around her head. Finally, exhausted and out of breath, she collapsed against the sturdy slab of oak.
“Damn you, anyway.” She gasped in tears realizing she was trapped and out of ideas.
Defeated, she turned, her back resting against the door for support. Broken wheels and pieces of the footrest lay scattered across the rug, and farther off in the hall, having crashed into one of the pillars, the remnants of the seat lay in a pile of cane webbing and wood splinters. Well, thank goodness for small miracles, she thought. At least that ugly chair was one less thing for her to deal with. There was no sign of the coiling mass, but wispy trails curled their way among the pillars and along the stairs in a sinister manner. She wasn’t going back up there.
No way.
Not a chance.
Forget it.
An ominous hush descended following the clamor, and she sidled along the wall to the parlor. The only plan she could imagine at this point was to barricade herself in and take an inventory of the drinks cabinet, with a choice of drink being the only decision she would have to make for the next little while, or until fog-thing showed up again.
~*~
The car swerved from the asphalt onto a narrower gravel-strewn road, spitting stones and raising a cloud of dust in its wake. John corrected, encouraged to find himself that much closer. Having travelled this course nearly every year of his life for the Weekend, he was familiar with what to expect in terms of road conditions, and it wouldn’t be more than forty minutes before he was crossing the corbel arch bridge. Once he arrived, he had no idea what awaited him.
Several scenarios presented themselves, and he brushed them aside. Thinking negatively would not help the situation. In fact, thinking hadn’t helped at all, and he was loath to admit to a sense of helplessness. What good was he to Emma if he had no clear answers for her, but only suspicions? Was it enough for them to know who was behind the recent events? Indeed, her knight in shining armor will have arrived gallant, but without a plan. They would have to figure it out together if it came to that, after all, this was an Everdon/Ruskin issue, and if both were present, their chances of resolving the matter should be that much better. This made sense in a predicament that defied logic.
~*~
Emma’s head buzzed pleasantly as she imagined how fog-thing would try to kill her next. The roof tiles had missed her as did the wheelchair, but the candelabrum nearly toppling onto her had been the closest call. Emma raised the snifter to her lips, cradling it in her hand as she had seen Matthew and the other men do it, allowing the Brandy to heat adding to its delicious warmth. It was quite enjoyable once she got used to it and stopped coughing. Her wine bottle awaited her in the cooler, but she needed something suited to the occasion, strong and quick to work, and if it muddled her mind, so what? Thus far, the clearheaded approach had been of little use except for dodging objects aimed at her, which seemed rather childish. Little kids and pissed off girlfriends threw things. In fact, the episodes had all the markings of a stupid game of cat and mouse; she being the mouse hiding in her nest while the peeved off cat waited
outside for her. And if the cat caught the mouse? What then? Emma sipped and swirled the fruity-velvety liquid in her mouth. That was an excellent question. She swallowed and enjoyed the heat sliding down to her stomach.
Slouched in the settee, her legs stretched out toward the cold fireplace, Emma contemplated her socks. Except for her arm, which was still sore, she hadn’t been hit by falling objects, though they were deliberately used against her. If anything, it was a war of nerves — her nerves, specifically. The cat-fog-thing had summoned her to the manor. It wanted this little mouse to come and set it free, which would be very hard to do if the little mousie were to get badly hurt or die. Yes, indeed, no harm can come to the mousie. God, this stuff is strong! Emma drained the glass, her anxiety dampened by a thick layer of giddiness. Oddly enough, it was the first time she could think straight since all the shenanigans began. The question — two questions remained — who was cat-fog-thing, and how was she going to release it? In her current state, it hadn’t yet occurred to Emma to question how the entity had earned its imprisonment. She regarded the empty glass. Should she or shouldn’t she? At some point, she’d have to face her foe. Her decision made, Emma gave herself another shot.
~*~
John was deep in thought when he detected motion in front of him. At the last minute, he slammed on the brakes and the car fishtailed on the loose gravel then veered sideways, left the road and hit an outcrop of rock, his head connecting with the side window. Through unfocused eyes, he glimpsed a flash of a white tail that disappeared into the trees on the opposite side — he had forgotten about the deer this time of year. Damn! He should have been paying attention. His throbbing head flopped forward onto the airbag.
~*~
“Maybe we can take an Uber out there.” Rachel suggested.
Matthew regarded the parking lot full of cars glinting in the sun grim-faced. The second vehicle had died on them too.
“I have the strongest suspicion we wouldn’t make it far.”
“This isn’t a coincidence. It doesn’t want us there. It only wants…” Rachel choked back a sob.
He drew her to him. This crazy situation had them all going in circles. “John is probably there by now, anyway. Or really close.”
She looked up trying to remain hopeful. “Do you think so?”
He nodded. “If anyone can make it out there, he can.”
It was Rachel’s turn to nod, but like her husband, she would have liked to be more optimistic about his chances.
Matthew’s cellphone buzzed in his pocket. “See, that could be him calling from Fairmont.”
He glanced at the display. No such luck. It was Elinor and he let it go to voicemail.
~*~
Having stalled for as long as she could, Emma inched to the door open. Nothing had changed since her last foray into the central hall, except it was more deeply shadowed than before. She came out careful to avoid stepping on any fragments of the shattered wheelchair. The repulsive mist still floated above, and nothing waited around the pillars that she could see.
“If you’re waiting for me, you’ll have to give me five. I have to go to the bathroom first, so I’m warning you not to stop me.”
She gave the vast space a final sweep then hurried down the hall and shut the door behind her. Her pale and haggard reflection bore witness to little sleep and plenty of anxiety. Just as well I’m alone, she thought. If this kept up much longer, she’d end up looking like a ghost herself! She turned the tap and splashed water on her face and drank from her cupped hands. The cool water helped to refresh her, and she patted her face dry and took a deep breath for the walk back.
Keeping her arms curled protectively around her body, she retraced her steps and stopped near the bulk of the ruined wheelchair and waited at a safe distance from the pillars. The grandfather clock tick-tocked the seconds away from the alcove, then the ancient clock’s mechanism whirred to life, and the hammer struck the bell. She had no idea what the time was and counted along with the clock. The echo from the last strike died down. Three strikes and you’re out! She hoped not.
The ensuing silence unnerved her as she observed the strange fog having wrapped its tendrils around the granite columns, clinging to them like ghostly vines. Had the thing given up on her? Her eyes scanned the upper gallery finding no one there. The short hallway leading to the portrait gallery was dark, yet…
A sound turned her head. A moment later, something was moving out of the shadows. Emma blinked in disbelief. A chair from the dining room was scraping along the floor and creeping ever closer, the grating of the wooden legs against the marble setting her teeth on edge. Just when she was beginning to think there was nothing left to be thrown at her, there it was.
She was about to escape to the parlor when that door slammed shut. Panicked, Emma whirled around seeking an alternate sanctuary. She ran for the closest door, which was the drawing room, but it remained firmly closed no matter how hard she turned the handle and pushed. Behind her, the chair slowly advanced. What would happen when it reached the carpet? Tip over or launch into the air? She took her first steps toward of the library when it sailed in front of her and smashed against the wall, wood splinters missing her by mere inches. She screamed into her hands and stumbled backward. Maybe she’d make it to the library if…
She glanced around — reinforcement was on its way. Sure enough, chair number two was already tottering and scraping its way out into the hall. Nowhere for her to escape, Emma considered the staircase. If she was quick, she’d get to her room. Movement from the corner of her eye propelled her toward the stairs, and she hastened upward on unsteady legs. Adrenaline coursing through her veins had flushed out the Brandy, and blood rushed in her ears. She was halfway up when the chair halted on its journey. So, that was the point, to chase her upstairs and likely into a trap!
She stopped on the landing as if awaiting further instructions and was rewarded when the connecting corridor suddenly brightened. Emma entered cautiously and followed the carpet runner to the end where the sconces flickered brightly between the long rows of paintings. She turned left toward her kin and took tentative steps forward. Behind her, the lights dimmed. Interpreting the cues, she continued along to a flickering flame. Of course, she would stop in front of Mason Everdon and Amelia’s portraits. Everything was about them — her life, her safety and now, her sanity. Her mother never said it would come to this. The historical lovers, once reunited, everybody should have been living happily ever after, but someone wasn’t happy about it, and because of that, no one else was going to be either.
“It isn’t fair.” Emma whispered to both Mason and Amelia, trying to draw strength from them. They were together, she finally understood that. Yet, here she was, tricked into coming here for a purpose she did not know how to fulfill.
“I agree.” A voice beside her said. “It isn’t fair.”
~*~
At last, the corbel arch bridge came into view, and John picked up his pace to a jog. The damage to the car too great to continue driving, and with no traffic in either direction — he was not about to spend hours waiting for help that may or may not come, he decided to leave it behind and walk the rest of the way. His head was pounding, but at least the manor was in sight. He’d easily make it, and sprinting over the bridge, he changed course and crossed the expanse of lawn, cutting the distance in half.
Almost there, the sun gradually receded behind a veil of gray, lending the manor a forbidding, uninviting air. Thus far, the day had been nothing but sunny skies, and now, he was surrounded by a thickening fog, and peering through it, he nearly walked into Emma’s car. Already apprehensive, his body tensed. The stately home had aged considerably since his last visit, the mortar between the granite loose in places, the windows, from what he could see through the mist, grimy. A number of slate tiles lay cracked and crumbled in the brambles and weeds. He hurried to t
he steps. Emma was behind these desolate walls, and he needed to get to her.
~*~
Emma yelped and spun around to meet a pair of startling violet eyes. Her hand reached to the wall for support as she stumbled backward. Slim with a mass of carefully pinned blonde curls on her head, the woman who held her gaze turned to Mason’s portrait. Emma blinked at the vision. Was this woman in the form-fitting gold damask gown the entity that had been pursuing her since she arrived? Did this apparition that looked like an Edwardian lady haunt her nights and demand she set her free? She didn’t look like a ghost, but Emma wasn’t about to try to confirm it.
The violet eyes shifted to her again. “Did you know that Everdon Manor is built on Ruskin land?” She enquired.
Emma shook her head. As far as she knew, it had belonged to Mason Everdon, and to the family since.
“Yet there is not a single Ruskin depicted in any of these paintings.” Her gaze followed the row of portraits along one wall then the other. “That never sat well with me.” She was studying Amelia’s portrait with cold eyes. “This should have been mine.” She faced Emma again.
Emma watched mesmerized. Her face was familiar, but she could not recall from where, and though her features were attractive, she repulsed her. The specter’s eyes bored into hers, and the expressionless features acquired a sneer.
“You are weak. Always have been. Of course it is you, who is responsible for the death of your dear friend. You led her here like a lamb to the slaughter after all.”
