Don't Tell a Soul

by Kirsten Miller

  “Anything.” Miriam let go of my arm. “Anything at all.”

  I figured I’d test her. “As a matter of fact, something happened last night,” I said. “I woke up and found my door wide open. I’m pretty sure it was closed when you left. Was there someone in the house last night aside from you, me, and my uncle?”

  Miriam’s face aged twenty years in ten seconds. The creases in her forehead grew deeper and the color drained from her cheeks. “Not to my knowledge,” she said. “Did you see anyone?”

  I shook my head, watching her carefully. “No,” I told her.

  “Then I wouldn’t let it worry you. Old houses behave in strange ways.” She said it as though she were trying to convince herself as much as me. “But please let me know if it happens again.”

  “I will.”

  “Let me know,” she repeated. “Don’t worry your uncle. James already has far too much on his mind.”

  “Okay,” I said. If she was trying to set me at ease, it wasn’t working. I was suddenly much more concerned than I had been.

  “So,” Miriam said with an unconvincing smile. “Are you ready for some bacon and eggs?”

  I followed Miriam out of the burnt half of the house and into the manor’s south wing, where a formal dining room sat empty. High above my head, the gilded ceiling had been lovingly restored. A white drop cloth still covered the room’s chandelier, and in the dim winter light, it looked like a phantom hovering in midair. In the corner was what had once been a butler’s pantry. It hid a servants’ staircase that led downstairs to a kitchen—an enormous Victorian food factory built to feed a few lucky masters and an army of servants. The appliances were modern, but the room still belonged to the past. The ceiling was low, the pots were all copper, and the floors were made of stone. Snow sealed the little windows that lined the walls above our heads, and the room was lit by the blaze in a fireplace large enough to roast a whole ox. A long wooden table ran almost the full length of the room. Miriam pulled out a chair for me.

  “You might want to watch. This stove can be tricky. Your uncle still hasn’t figured out how to use it.” Then she paused and listened. “Speak of the devil. I think I hear him coming down now.”

  I couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement. I’d been devoted to James when I was little. My father had worked long hours at his architecture firm, and my mother hadn’t taken to motherhood the way she’d hoped. I’d been a lonely child, and James had been the ideal playmate. Born seven years after my mother, he was everything she wasn’t—charismatic, exciting, and fond of children. My grandparents had died in a car accident the summer James graduated from high school, and he’d taken his inheritance and set out to wander the globe. My mother once told me that she’d seen him twice in the five years between their parents’ funeral and the day I was born. After that, he visited regularly. He brought me presents from faraway lands—giant fighting beetles, creepy dolls—each gift chosen to delight me and mortify his sister. A few times a year, he would whisk me away on a Saturday, telling my mother we were off to the library or the movies. Instead we’d head to the amusement park at Coney Island and gorge on hot dogs and cotton candy. By the following Monday, James would be off again, and I would be left alone, eagerly waiting for his return.

  I was nine when James came back to New York to stay. He married a young woman named Sarah, bought a town house a few blocks from ours, and started calling himself a businessman. My mother was thrilled that her baby brother had stopped burning through his inheritance and was finally getting serious. I was confused. It seemed like the person I’d known my whole life was pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Before long, James’s business started to struggle, and I barely saw him. When I did, he spent most of the time on his phone. My aunt Sarah did her best to make up for him. She had a job of her own, but she always found time for me. I thought she pitied me for losing the uncle I’d adored. I didn’t realize that she’d lost him, too.

  Then one day Sarah and my father died. Within a week, James was gone. He’d closed his company, sold his house, and disappeared. My mother was furious. I didn’t hold it against him at first. Every night I prayed James would come back. We didn’t hear from him for years.

  Next thing we knew, James had bought an old mansion in the middle of nowhere and announced he was opening an inn. I begged my mother to take me to see him. We drove up for a visit and discovered him living in a hollowed-out ruin. I remember herds of mice stampeding down the halls and a goat living in one of the bedrooms. James and my mother fought at dinner, and she accused him of being selfish and irresponsible. That was the last time I saw him. My mom and I didn’t even go to his second wedding. After our visit, she rarely even mentioned his name. She seemed determined to forget she’d ever had a brother. In my darkest moments, I’d wondered if the uncle I remembered had ever really existed.

  Now the sound of footsteps was growing louder. I stood up straight and watched the doorway. I had no idea who I’d see. My whole body was buzzing with a blend of excitement and terror. When James finally appeared in front of me, I was glad Miriam had warned me that he’d changed. I’m not sure I’d have known who he was if she hadn’t. His black hair was shot through with gray, and the scruff on his chin had gone white. I’d always thought of him as a giant. Now he appeared hunched over and hollowed out—like something was feeding on him from the inside. I couldn’t help but notice that he’d added extra holes to his belt. Without them, the pants he was wearing would have collapsed around his ankles. In the years since I’d seen him, James had become an old man. Miriam was right. It took me by surprise. I hadn’t expected to pity him.

  “My God, you’ve grown up gorgeous.” James drew me into a hug, and I was startled to feel ribs jutting out from his back. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you.”

  I’d spent years daydreaming about this moment—the uncle I’d adored saving me from my mother and welcoming me into his home. But now that it was happening, it didn’t feel right.

  “Thanks for letting me stay,” I said once I’d managed to break free.

  “I’m delighted to have you, Bram. In fact, I’m sorry it’s taken so long. I would have had you up here ages ago if your mother had allowed it. You know how difficult she is.”

  I did, which was why it had always been so hard to believe he’d abandoned me. I watched as James eased his body into a chair. When he looked up at me, he was practically beaming. He did seem happy to have me in his home.

  “I’m making Bram some eggs and bacon,” Miriam said. “Would you care for some?”

  “No, thank you, Miriam,” James replied. “I’ll be fine with coffee.”

  I walked around the table and took a seat across from him.

  “I spoke with your mother this morning,” he announced. His tone made it clear that the conversation hadn’t been pleasant. “She said you haven’t been answering her calls.”

  “My phone died last night,” I told him, remembering the creature I’d seen seconds before the word “MOTHER” had flashed on my phone’s screen.

  “Ah,” he said as Miriam set a mug of coffee down for him. “Well, give her a shout as soon as you’re able, before she drives me completely batty.”

  “I will,” I promised. When I’m ready, I added to myself.

  “How did you sleep?” he asked, raising the mug to his lips.

  Before I could answer, Miriam chimed in nervously. “I was meaning to tell you—I had to put Bram in the rose room last night.”

  James glanced up from his coffee to look at Miriam for the first time. His thick black eyebrows cast shadows over his eyes. “The rose room?”

  “I’m sorry, James. The power was out. It was the only room I could get warm enough. I didn’t want Bram to freeze to death.”

  James’s eyes remained locked on the housekeeper. The only sound was the bacon sizzling on the stove. Miriam didn’t
cower or turn away from his glare. There seemed to be another conversation taking place—I just wasn’t able to hear it. But one message came through loud and clear—there was something weird about the rose room.

  “I know you had another room in mind for me,” I said, “but I was wondering if it would be all right if I stayed put.”

  James’s attention returned to me. “Isn’t the rose room a bit frilly for you?” he asked. “You used to be such a tomboy.”

  “Did I?” I couldn’t really remember what I’d been like before he left New York, and I didn’t know if it was the right time to tell him that tomboys were no longer a thing.

  “Now that the power’s back on, I do think the blue room would be better, Bram,” Miriam hastened to say. “I’ve got it all ready for you.”

  “Sounds like she’s already fallen in love,” James said. “Don’t forget your eggs, Miriam. It would be a shame if they burned.”

  Miriam took the hint to mind her own business and turned back to face the stove.

  “What is it about the rose room that appeals to you?” James asked me.

  “The painting on the wall,” I told him. I saw Miriam freeze with her spatula in midair. For a moment, she and James remained perfectly still. They didn’t even appear to be breathing.

  Finally James spoke. “The painting? What about it?”

  My mother always said I had a knack for finding trouble. I’d been at the manor for less than twelve hours, and I’d already crossed some invisible line. “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s unusual. When I saw it this morning, it made me feel happy.”

  James had just taken a sip of coffee. “Happy?” He choked on the word. Miriam was approaching the table with my bacon and eggs on a plate. Her eyes were wide, and I knew I’d surprised her as well.

  “Is that strange?” I asked.

  “Did you tell her?” James asked Miriam.

  Miriam seemed startled by the question. “No,” the housekeeper said solemnly, placing a hand over her heart as though taking a pledge. “I didn’t say a word.”

  James nodded. “Will you excuse us for a minute or two, Miriam? I think I should speak to my niece alone.”

  “Certainly.” Miriam set the plate of food down on the table in front of me and scurried out of the room.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, my discomfort growing by the second. It was way too early for me to be rocking the boat.

  James held up a finger and waited until Miriam’s footsteps faded in the distance, before he finally continued. As I watched his finger, I could see it trembling, and I wondered if James might be ill. “I was hoping I wouldn’t need to tell you until you’d settled in. There’s a story about the mural in the rose room,” he said. “If you live in Louth, you’re bound to hear it. You might as well hear it from me.”

  I almost laughed at my luck. Of course there was a horrible story. I should have expected it.

  “There’s a girl in the painting,” James said. “Did you see her?”

  “Yes,” I said, bracing myself. “Who is she?”

  “Her name was Grace Louth.”

  “Louth? Like the town?”

  James nodded. “Her father built the manor. The town is named after him. The rose room belonged to Grace while she lived here. In 1890, she drowned herself in the Hudson River. She was only eighteen years old. It was a terrible tragedy.”

  That was the last thing I’d been expecting to hear. “She killed herself? Why?” I could picture the girl’s radiant face. I’d imagined her racing toward something wonderful. I was devastated to learn that she never made it.

  James shrugged. “Why did girls drown themselves in rivers back then?” he asked, as if the answer were obvious. I couldn’t figure out what it might be.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Why did they?”

  “Heartbreak,” he informed me. “Grace was planning to elope with a lover, but her father found out and bribed the fiancé to leave town. According to the legend, the painting shows Grace in her wedding dress, heading for the river the night she died.”

  I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes. If it was true, I’d been wrong about everything. The Grace Louth I’d seen on the wall was euphoric. Everyone else saw a desolate bride rushing toward her death. Either something was wrong with me—or with them.

  “So don’t be surprised if you hear people claim that the manor is cursed.”

  I cleared my throat and blinked my eyes. I could hardly believe the word had just left my uncle’s lips. “Cursed?”

  “A few days after Grace drowned, her father, Frederick Louth, was found dead of a heart attack in the rose room. People say Grace’s ghost came back for revenge, and some believe this house has been cursed ever since.”

  “I don’t believe in curses,” I told him. I didn’t believe in ghosts, either.

  “Nor do I,” James agreed emphatically. “I want you to know that. But there’s been a great deal of gossip in town since Dahlia died. People think the curse was responsible for the fire that killed my wife. It wasn’t, of course.”

  He paused for a moment, and I assumed that was the end of it.

  “But her death did have something to do with the mural,” he said.

  That got my attention. “How?”

  James stared down at the table before looking back up at me with red-rimmed eyes. “My stepdaughter, Lark, chose the rose room when she came to live here with her mother.”

  I felt a rush of excitement. We’d chosen the same room.

  “Her father came from a family with a history of mental illness, and Lark had already begun to show signs of it when I met her. After Dahlia and I married, Lark’s condition deteriorated. By the time of the fire, she’d gone mad.”

  “Mad?” The word caught me off guard. I knew he meant “crazy,” but outside of a nineteenth-century novel, I’d never heard anyone actually use the word “mad” that way before.

  “I’m sorry,” James said. “I know it sounds old-fashioned, but I don’t know how else to describe her condition. Lark was always a little…unusual. But she didn’t show many outward signs of mental illness until the end. About a month after she moved to the manor, she became obsessed with the girl in the mural. She spent hours and hours locked in her room, writing about Grace Louth. At night, she’d come out and wander the house. It was all so macabre. Eventually, Dahlia decided to send Lark to live with her father. We both hoped her mental state would improve after she left the manor.”

  “But it didn’t?” I asked.

  “No. The night the north wing burned, Lark broke into the manor while her mother and I were sleeping. The fire department believes the blaze started when a candle she was holding ignited a pair of drapes.”

  “So the fire was an accident?” I asked.

  “It was ruled an accident, but I have my doubts. All we know is that the fire trapped Lark in a room in the north wing. Dahlia—” He stopped for a moment, too choked up to continue. Tears flowed freely down both sides of his face. “While I was phoning 911, Dahlia must have heard Lark’s cries and run to help. Lark jumped from a window to escape the fire, but Dahlia never made it out. She died of smoke inhalation. The firemen found Lark wandering the grounds, raving about dead girls. When her condition didn’t improve after she was released from the hospital, her father was forced to have her committed.”

  I took a moment to think it through.

  “You think your stepdaughter burned your house down?” I just wanted to confirm that that was his account.

  “I wish there were another explanation, but that’s the only one that makes sense.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Uncle James.” I was. Very sorry.

  “Thank you.” He wiped his tears on his shirtsleeve before reaching across the table and taking my hand. “It helps to have you here. I know you have a lot on
your plate, Bram, and I know bad things have happened. Your mother told me her side of the story, and I’m sure you have yours. I don’t want you to think you have to deal with my worries, too. This should be a time of healing for both of us.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t come to heal. The damage that had been done could not be reversed. Still, I nodded.

  “You can choose any room you like. After everything I’ve told you, are you sure you still want to stay in the rose room?”

  I nodded. “I am.” I wanted to be where Lark had been.

  James frowned. He’d hoped for another answer. “Then you have my blessing to stay. There’s only one thing I have to ask.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s focus on life and let the dead rest peacefully in their graves. There’s been too much tragedy in our lives, Bram. I don’t think I can bear anymore. How about you?”

  “No,” I told him. “I’ve had enough, too.”

  He brushed my cheek with a knuckle. “You were always such a sweet little thing. I wish your father could be here to see you so grown-up and mature,” he said. Then he took my hand. “I think we’re going to get through all of this together, don’t you?”

  “I hope so,” I told him. It wasn’t a lie. There was honestly nothing I wanted more.

  “Then I’ll let Miriam know that the rose room is yours. You don’t need to explain yourself—or tell her we had this conversation. In fact, the less you say to Miriam the better. The locals here love to gossip—and most of them are not fond of outsiders. There are a million crazy stories floating around about this place.”

  That was something I had no trouble believing.

  After breakfast, I went for another wander. This time, I checked out the devastation on the top floors of the north wing. The third-story rooms appeared to have sustained the most damage. The floorboards seemed so brittle that I worried I might plunge right through them. But the second story seemed safe for exploring. Pieces of charred furniture still stood where they had the night of the fire. But everything was black—as if the rooms had been hosed down with an industrial paint sprayer. So, when I entered the final chamber, my eyes were instantly drawn to a splash of yellow on what must have once been a small table. A fresh box of safety matches lay beside it.