by L C Kincaide
He reached for a cushion and handed it to her and went over to the chair by the fire. Emma slid down and rolled onto her good arm. He was right, her eyelids were heavy. She watched him as he slouched in it, his long legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles. His hands were steepled and resting against his chin as he contemplated the night ahead. She smiled and closed her eyes.
~*~
“Who is it?” Rachel jumped to her feet, her knees knocking into the coffee table and upsetting her glass. She ignored the spill.
“It’s mom.” He contemplated letting the call go to voicemail again. They hadn’t heard from John since they last spoke with him nearly three hours ago. Assuming he was at the manor, they had nothing to go on, and telling Elinor anything at this point wouldn’t help anyone. Two more attempts at securing a rental car ended with them taking a taxi home. The whole situation was beyond explanation.
“Maybe you should pick up. You’ll only have to call her back.”
He relented. May as well get it over with.
Rachel took a napkin to the spilled liquid. A change in Matthew’s tone drew her attention.
“What? When did this happen?” He said gripping the phone.
Rachel’s head snapped up.
He listened a moment longer then clicked off, his round eyes meeting hers. “We have to leave.”
“What? What happened?” She asked, the soggy napkin dripping from her hand.
“I’ll tell you on the way.”
~*~
Regardless of what he came up with, everything led to Emma. Victoria may have terrorized everyone else, but it was Emma whom she wanted back at the manor. If he only had a clue how the disgruntles Spirit’s release from here was supposed to transpire. There was only one way he could see — she’d have to tell them, or Emma, but she might as well let him in on it because he was planning to be at Emma’s side. The Ruskin had no business terrorizing anyone — it made them all look bad.
If anybody knew the one-sided conversation taking place in his head, they’d lock him up, and he understood how Emma felt. She was dozing peacefully on the settee beneath her sleeping bag he had unzipped and draped over her. That she had spent the day and night in this room, in this manor on her own with an enraged ghost and no electricity! He shuddered. And she didn’t think she was brave!
It was full dark outside, and with the power off, nearly as gloomy inside. He wasn’t looking forward to them venturing out to face the tortured Spirit of Victoria Ruskin, and he glanced at his watch to see how long from now, but it had stopped, probably when he hit it in the car. Still, a quick look around before heading out wouldn’t hurt, and he picked up the camping lantern he had spotted earlier. Before shutting the door, he checked on Emma, who hadn’t moved since her eyes closed. She was exhausted. He’d rouse her when he returned.
Nothing stirred in the central hall. So different from what he remembered from all the years he’d been coming here, it seemed to be waiting in a hushed, cool and ominous silence. Did he sense something watching, or was it his imagination? The remnants of the wheelchair came into view as he approached the carpet, and fragments littered the floor from a broken dining room chair. The one that had come to a halt when he burst through the door was still intact where it had touched down. That was a sight he won’t soon forget. Nearby, a painting lay face down on the rug. He turned it over to meet Amelia’s eyes. He’d seen the portrait before hanging in the gallery beside her husband’s picture. Seems great-great aunt Victoria was in an especially vile mood. He propped the old painting against a pillar, facing away from the mayhem.
Surveying the flight of stairs, nothing caught his attention except darkness beyond the circle of the lantern’s light. If Victoria waited up there, he had no way to tell.
Emma mentioned seeing the ballroom, and curious, he decided to have a look for himself. Passing a series of closed doors, he was reminded of the night of the party, just before the storm put an end to the festivities. The women had been terrified, and he helped escort them to the parlor before heading out with Matthew to start the generator which they never did due to a fallen branch blocking the doorway.
He creaked the French doors open to a ballroom steeped in darkness. Not even moonlight glanced off any surface. Holding the lantern aloft, he took a tentative step inside and peered into the gloom. Here and there in the lantern’s light, he caught a glint of the chandelier’s crystals where they had been strewn across the floor when the fixture detached from the ceiling and crashed, its skeleton of brass lying canted in the center of the room. The candelabrum lay nearby. The displaced furniture too remained unmoved from that night, and the palms and ferns drooped, withered in their pots.
Standing amidst the ruins, he was surprised to recall an old memory. It was in this room he had taken his first faltering steps on the parquet floor with Emma. If he were to close his eyes, he could hear the music from the antique crank gramophone scratching out Strauss in the background while he and Emma three-stepped awkwardly around the floor. The dance flowed more smoothly with Grace, but he’d always preferred Emma.
Only desolation permeated the once inviting and elegant space, and he backed out, closing the doors behind him. Returning to the parlor, he noted the fire warmed the room to a much more pleasant temperature compared to the rest of the house, and as if to confirm his observation, he found the sleeping bag lying crumpled on the floor. It must have become too warm for her — his gaze moved to the settee and he froze. Emma was gone!
Emma found herself at the far end of the portrait gallery with the eldest of the family members. Was she dreaming? Surely not sleepwalking again? The last thing she remembered was lying downstairs on the settee, and John was there too. Yes, he had come to the manor to help her so she wouldn’t have to do it alone, but he wasn’t with her now!
To one side, Martha Everdon Langstone gazed into the gloom. Having founded that branch of the family, she was the last, or first in line, depending on one’s view. Opposite her, the ever discomfiting scowl of Margaret Bloodwell Everdon, Emma’s lookalike and the eldest Everdon to set foot on American soil, met her gaze. Emma’s eyes roved over her face wondering again if that awaited her too. Personality made a big difference in how those features expressed themselves, she reasoned, and if she didn’t do something to change how her experiences were so far progressing, she may end up looking even more grim-faced than Margaret.
Mesmerized, Emma stared at the painting, willing the subject to give up her secrets. Why did you crash into Amelia? How did you find the strength for it? The portrait itself was cloaked in guilt and remorse.
“What happened?” Emma whispered to her. “Did you really go crazy?”
It came to pass this very night — Emma counted — one hundred and fifteen years ago, just past eleven. A thousand spiders skittered over her flesh, raising goosebumps in their wake.
The air shimmered beside her, and in a whisper of mist, she appeared. Emma turned her head to meet the cool violet eyes boring into hers. She stepped back, instinctively cradling her injured arm.
The pale eyes shifted to the portrait. “We never did like each other very much, did we?” Victoria addressed the subject conversationally. “How extraordinary that one small incident can lead to such a consequence-laden conclusion.”
Her gaze fixed on Emma again, her body becoming translucent for a moment. The sconces flickered on the verge of dying out, then returned to life, as earlier.
“Had I known, I may have resisted, but the timing was too good to not follow through. It’s as if it was meant to be, and I am a devout believer in fate.”
Emma observed the vision of Victoria Ruskin, knowing more about her than she did before. And no, she did not like her any more for it.
“You manipulated me!”
“Now, now.” She chided her softly. “You made it so very easy. How could I not?”
>
“If you kill me, you’ll be stuck here forever.” Emma said with finality.
Victoria laughed lightly, the tinkle of crystals on the chandelier just before it crashed to the floor.
“My, that would be as dreadful as continuing this conversation.”
Emma tried to go around her, but Victoria moved in her path. “No. Not so fast. We are but getting started, you and I. There is still the small matter of you liberating me.”
“I told you. I don’t know how.”
“But you do. Believe me, I want to leave as much as you do. I don’t belong here. Your precious Amelia cast me out of the house and into… nothingness. This cannot continue.”
Emma found herself mesmerized by the hypnotic tone of her voice.
Victoria’s eyes were intent on hers, and she inclined her head. “You Everdons are all the same, aren’t you? So preoccupied with yourselves that you cannot see what lies before you. You have no vision.”
“You don’t know anything about me!”
Was she going on about Mason and Amelia, and the love triangle she had imagined herself in? She really was insane, in life and after.
“I have nothing to do with what happened, and I’ve made my peace with Ivy.” She said. “There’s no use showing me visions of Amelia’s death either.”
Victoria’s face contorted to look sad, an insincere impression at best. “But, my dear girl, I’ve done no such thing.”
“You have since my first night here. Over and over showing me the wheelchair being pushed into Amelia. Why?”
“I assure you I have not.” Her expression became hostile.
Emma gasped, and her legs, suddenly weak, buckled under her. “Seeing as you are so fixated on the wheelchair, shall I fetch it for you? Give you a little push and make your dreams a reality?” Victoria leaned over her. “Oh dear! It completely slipped my mind it is broken.”
A little push. Those three words jolted a chain reaction of disjointed thoughts linking them together to form a pattern. The visions of her in the wheelchair bearing down on Amelia, her hands useless to slow down, never mind stopping in time. The glance over her shoulder and the glimpse of a hand grasping the wheelchair’s handle.
“You!”
Victoria arched her eyebrows in innocence.
“It was you, all along.” She accused the specter looming over her. “You were the one who started it all, not Margaret Everdon.”
Victoria’s mouth curved into a smile as her eyes engaged hers in a cold stare. “I dare say, I was not alone in that, though I do admit to playing a small role in what transpired.”
Small role? Was she kidding?
Emma was shaking on the carpet, helpless to vent her anger from where she slouched against the wall. She struggled to get up, but an invisible weight pushed against her, forcing her back.
“I need for you to forgive me. I have paid my penance. I died as I lived, alone and heartbroken. Margaret, at least was spared that fate.”
“Forgive you?” Emma asked incredulous. “The woman lived the rest of her days in anguish. Everyone thought she was mad. They believe it even now. We were all cursed for generations. Innocent people died!”
“That couldn’t be helped. Now, won’t you be good about it? It is for your own benefit as well as mine.”
Emma was astounded. Her arm in a sling, she could not raise herself to a standing position. “It’s not my place to forgive you. Ask her!” She pointed to Margaret’s portrait.
“You are being willful.” Victoria’s hands were on her hips. “Very well. If this is the way it needs to be…” She moved closer.
Pressed against the wall, there was nowhere to shrink back. The spectral hand reached for her, and stretching into a filament, it coiled itself around her wrist in a tight, icy grip. The world exploded in a searing, white flash.
“Emma!” John shouted, his frantic eyes searching the room. Where was she? When he stepped out, she had been sound asleep behind firmly shut doors, and he had been gone only a little while, the shortest time spent in the ballroom. How did she get past him so fast? It shouldn’t be possible! Back in the central hall, he scanned the hallway where he had been moments ago finding nothing but darkness, closed doors and the remains of several chairs. Fingers raked through his hair. He never should have left her. Striding underneath the skylight, he turned in a circle, and facing the staircase again, a faint light cast from the connecting corridor. He took the stairs two at a time.
The corridor vanished, the walls falling away into a roiling mist that clung to her like an oily film. Her body seemed to have disappeared too, and she was only aware of her wrist, cold and clamped in a writhing tendril that was pulling her forward and deeper into the fog as she fought against it. A disembodied voice called from the haze. “Release me or stay.”
Terrified, Emma yanked hard, but the grip was too strong to wrest herself from it. Her eyes saw nothing but the hideous silent, choking mass surrounding her. It was she and whatever had become of Victoria Ruskin coiled around her wrist in this wretched space dragging her ever-deeper in. This can’t be happening! Her injured arm appeared free of its sling, and her fingers clawed at the grasping coil. Emma struggled, her face damp with tears and the nauseatingly clinging vapor.
“John, help me!” She called into the void. “Ivy! Anybody, help me!”
This must be purgatory, maybe even hell, and she didn’t belong here. John was somewhere close, but as long as she was joined to this thing, he would not find her. This was Victoria’s realm, and the Spirit was desperate to be free, enough to keep Emma hostage until she did the impossible.
“NO! I won’t let you do this to me!” Emma twisted and strained against her foe. During her struggle, her skin prickled and her hair lifted as if raised by static. An ear-splitting shriek exploded from the murk, the coil unravelling and abruptly freeing her arm, Emma tumbled down, down into the velvety void.
Emma screamed, and turning from the landing, he dashed into the short corridor and peered into the dimness. He spotted her at the far end where she lay crumpled and unmoving. A moment later, he was crouched at her side — this is how he had found her when he first burst through the front door! Her complexion was ghostly pale, and when his hand touched her cheek, it was damp and cool. Immediately, he checked for a pulse, finding it strong and steady. For a second, he’d held his breath, imagining the worst.
“Emma, can you hear me?” He gently brushed her hair from her face. Aside from being sallow and clammy to the touch, she didn’t appear to be injured. He watched her lying still and waited, blaming himself utterly for having left her alone even for so brief a time. It had taken only that little to whisk her away. Was Victoria behind this or some diabolical force? Or was there a difference between the two? He could not tell.
“Victoria!” He roared into the gloom.
Emma stirred and her eyelids fluttered open. Her eyes focused on his and widened. A shiver claimed her body, and she clung to him. Both arms encircling her, he glanced around for signs of anyone or anything else lurking in the shadows. It appeared they were alone for now.
“You’re safe.” He rocked her. “You’re safe.”
Emma’s breath hitched, and she clutched his arm in a vice-like grip.
“We can’t stay here.” John helped her down the stairs and to the parlor. Settling her on the settee, he turned, and she grasped his hand, her eyes round with fear.
“I’m only going to add a log. I’ll be two feet away.” Free of her grasp, he tended to the fire, her eyes never leaving him. He returned to her side with a still cool bottle of water and two tumblers.
“Can you tell me what happened?” He asked. She hadn’t said a word since he found her.
Emma sipped and regarded the flames for some time. “I was so cold.” She whispered and shivered at the memory. “Sh
e exists in a dense fog and when she appears, it clings to her, follows her and leaves a trail, yet it is her. It makes no sense, but I felt it.”
“And she’s trapped in it?”
Emma nodded.
“She must be desperate to be free.”
“She is. That’s why she dragged me in with her, to keep me there for company until I get her out.”
He circled his arm around her. “Thank God you fought her off.”
She turned to him. “I didn’t. Someone else was there with me. I don’t know who, but I couldn’t have done it on my own. I tried, but I wasn’t strong enough.”
John was stymied. What was going on here? Was the manor a portal to the other side? It was just a house made of granite, marble, and a forest in wood wainscoting! Whatever was happening was beyond explanation.
“There’s something else.”
John waited, afraid to ask.
“Margaret Everdon didn’t kill Amelia. Victoria grabbed hold of her wheelchair and shoved her from the corridor out to the landing. Since coming here I’ve dreamt it, saw it through Margaret’s eyes. It was terrible. Then I was able to piece it together, and when I confronted her, she didn’t deny it. Instead, she seemed nonchalant about the whole thing.”
“Unbelievable! After decades of everyone blaming Margaret… I never thought I’d be ashamed to be a Ruskin.”
“She doesn’t represent you or any of her descendants. She was obsessed. I guess she coined the term, madly in love, for she really did go mad.”
“I knew our family history united us, but It never occurred to me we were so enmeshed.”
“And all because one woman didn’t get the man she wanted.”
“It’s like a B-movie.” He raised the bottle. “Refill?”
