Obsession

by Marie Robinson

  “Do you know what I study, Mary?” Victor asks, setting the legal pad aside and leaning forward, excitement in his tone.

  “Nikolai told me something about being obsessed with the dead?”

  “An oversimplified if not entirely wrong explanation,” he says. There was a feverish look to his face now, a desire that made fear prickle down my spine. “I study death, that much is true. But my experiments concern how to defeat death—how to make a dead body alive once more.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Improbable,” he counters. “Take yourself, for example. By your own account, you died, but here you are. You’re not unique in this experience. What is the difference between my work to return life to a body and the natural phenomenon that occurs daily?”

  I open my mouth to argue, but I can’t. I’m not religious enough to claim that what happened to me was a miracle, but I can’t wrap my head around trying to replicate something so... unnatural.

  A door closes down the hall, causing me to jump, my heart racing once more. The moment seems to be broken, and I can feel my body succumbing to exhaustion. I try to hide the yawn, unable to stomach being alone in my room just yet, but he sees it anyways.

  “Get in bed,” he says, jerking his head towards the massive bed behind him.

  “Excuse me?” My bewilderment is evident when he rolls his eyes.

  “I don’t sleep normal hours,” he explains, sounding as if he loathes explaining himself. “I have plenty of work I was already planning on accomplishing. You’re, excuse the terms, basically dead on your feet and I don’t want to carry you. So unless you want to sleep outside my door, I suggest you take the bed I will not be using tonight.”

  I wait for the anger I know too well simmers in those honey eyes of his, but it’s as if he’s already completely dismissed me. Whether or not I sleep in his bed tonight, he doesn’t care. His mind has already moved on to his work as he sits at his desk, his back to me, the soft glow of his laptop silhouetting him. I leave the half-empty soda on the table and pad over to the intimidating bed.

  The posts are intricately carved with vines and snakes, the headboard similarly carved. Even in the low light of his room, I can see that the headboard shows a scene of Adam and Eve, being cast from the Garden of Eden, and demonic figures waiting for them in the barren hills. It fills me with a dread that makes me hesitate pulling back the blankets. But my eyes are raw from crying and my entire body aches.

  The sheets are cool as I slide into Victor’s bed, and the bed is so much more comfortable than mine, I can’t help the groan that escapes as I stretch out. I can see Victor’s shoulders tense, his typing pausing, before starting up once more. The bed smells like him, sage and cedar wood, a harsh chemical from his lab under it all. His pillows smell like nature’s fury, which is accurate, I decide, if he really wishes to defeat death like he says.

  Maybe two months ago I would have called him crazy, or insane. But I couldn’t see the dead two months ago. Now, I wonder if there is something to his theory. If I can see the souls of the dead, why couldn’t he figure out a way to return one into a body?

  “Victor?” I call, his name gentle on my lips.

  He looks over his shoulder towards me, half of his face masked in darkness, and a stab of fear and desire hits me.

  “Thank you,” I say simply. Victor returns to his work, and I feel a sense of disappointment. I watch him work, drinking him in and letting myself wonder what it would feel like if he were to slide in beside me and take me in his arms. Eventually I drift off to sleep, surrounded by his overwhelming presence, my monsters kept at bay for another night.

  Chapter Nine

  I’m momentarily confused when I wake up and my bed is so much larger than usual. Then the events of the previous night come crashing back and I realize I’m in Victor’s bed, the boy nowhere to be seen.

  “Victor?” I call out tentatively, not wanting to be too loud. Silence is my only response.

  I hear other doors in the hallway opening and shutting, students talking loudly as they make their way to breakfast. I even think I hear Cordelia and Vanessa.

  Crap. If they’re up, it means I’ve overslept and missed my morning duties. Mr. Cornell is going to be annoyed, but he won’t be nearly as bad as Mrs. Browning. I want to yell at Victor for not waking me up before he left, but why would he have? One kind act doesn’t mean he cares about what happens to me. I fling the blankets off of me and rush towards the door before stopping in the middle of the room.

  If I’m seen coming out of Victor’s room, in my pajamas no less, there’s no way anyone will believe nothing happened. Not only that but word will reach Mrs. Browning faster than even Einstein could calculate, I bet. If she’s mad that I’ve missed the morning cleaning duties, I don’t even want to consider what she’ll do when she hears I spent the night with one of her precious students, no matter how much I swear nothing happened.

  The blank wall with the secret door taunts me. I don’t even know how to get it to open, but I could figure it out. Then what? I have no idea how to get back to my room, and the narrow passages were completely dark. I could get lost and be trapped until someone either found me or I joined the ghosts bound to Crowsrest Manor.

  No, my only real option is through the bedroom door, out into the hallway where other students are. I don’t even know where this room is in relation to mine. I can’t stay in Victor’s room forever though. And when I’m back to my room—then what? Do I go to breakfast like nothing’s different, or do I try to play sick? I’m certainly exhausted enough from the night before that it shouldn’t be too hard to convince someone I’m not feeling well. And I should be getting my period soon, so I can play that up too.

  With that shell of a plan, I press my ear against the door, straining to hear the other side. Who the heck doesn’t have a clock in their room? Then again, my clock was my cellphone, waiting innocently on my nightstand. When I can’t hear anyone through the door, I ease open the door slowly, my breath held tight in my chest. The door doesn’t make a sound, and I peer through the crack to see if there’s anyone lingering in the hall. When I see no one, I open it a bit more, ready to close it quickly. But the hall is empty, and I let the breath out in a rush. A quick look shows that, like this hall, one way leads to a dead end and the other leads towards what I suspect is the main part of the manor.

  Steeling myself, I step into the hall, closing the door with a barely perceptible click. I hurry as quickly as I can down the hall, but then I hear the familiar voice of Mrs. Browning. I stop in my tracks, my heart in my throat as I wait for her to catch me. Between the entrance to the hall where I hear her approaching and me is a small alcove, similar to the one on the bottom floor for one of the restrooms.

  With no time to hesitate, I sprint towards it and throw myself into it as I hear her clipped tone more clearly. I don’t hear anyone else, but I’m not stupid enough to try to catch a glimpse of her. I press myself back against the wall, as if willing myself to become invisible.

  “There’s been no contact?”

  Mrs. Browning seems perturbed, the heels of her shoes clicking harder against the wooden floor as she stalks towards me. A bead of sweat rolls down my back and my hands are clammy against the wall. It’s all I can do not to pant.

  “And the body?” she demands as she comes to a stop almost parallel to me, so close I can see the hem of her dress. There’s no one else with her.

  “We are at a vital stage in this experiment. I do not need to remind you about this,” she snarls out, her tone full of spite. “I will not have the Wollstonecraft girl ruining this. She is complacent enough, but you know how her father is. I am mitigating what risk there is, but you must expedite this.”

  I gasp, then slap my hands over my mouth. My father? I barely have any memories of him and my mother told me so little about him. She only said that the monsters had gotten him and that we must never let them get me too.

  She grounds out a noise that sounds betwee
n a growl and sigh. “You have a month. Then, the girl must be removed. For the safety of this institute and our future. If there is any contact and you do not notify me immediately, I will have your head.”

  I edge closer to the door in the alcove and try the handle, but it’s locked. My hands shake even as I lean against the wall for support. She’s planning to get rid of me, that much I’m certain of. What other girl would she be talking about after saying my last name? But I doubt there’s anything I could ruin, I don’t even understand a quarter of what’s going on.

  “Mrs. Browning,” a languid warm voice greets the woman from the other end of the hall, and I want to slam my head against the wall in frustration. Why isn’t Nikolai at breakfast with the rest of them?

  “Ah, Mr. Jekyll,” she greets him and he comes into my view. “A late start to the day?”

  He glances at me, the movement so slight that if I weren’t so petrified, I wouldn’t have noticed it. It was a blink, nothing more, but he turns slightly towards me just as Mrs. Browning steps forward. Her back is to me now, she’s so close I can smell the rosehip soap she prefers. He gives her a charming smile.

  “It seems I overslept,” he answers with another stolen glance. “But I’m glad to meet you. I see you’ve been in contact with Mr. Shelley and the Society?”

  It’s then I realize she has a cellphone in her hand. That’s how she’d been talking to someone. But there wasn’t any signal. No one had cell phones that worked here, not even the students. The manor didn’t even allow Wi-Fi.

  “A brief update, Mr. Jekyll,” she answers, her tone dropping a degree. “Before you ask, there have been no updates to your application.”

  “You are quite the mind reader, Mrs. Browning,” he teases before crossing his arms over his chest. His hands, as always, are in the thin black leather gloves that go just over the end of the cuffs on his crisp shirt. “I hope that you’ll be able to help me.”

  Mrs. Browning slips the phone into a cleverly concealed pocket in her dress, tilting her head. I am tempted to steal the phone, but as if Nikolai were the mind reader, he gives a barely perceptible shake of his head.

  “I always strive to provide whatever my students need, Mr. Jekyll.” The warm matronly tone has returned, the one which sounds like the loving mother willing to spoil her favorite child.

  Nikolai looks over her shoulder at me and says, “I find myself in need of an assistant. I’m nearly ready to prepare practical experiments, and my theoretical work suggests that it is something better undertaken with another pair of hands.”

  “Have you asked one of the younger students? Certainly they’d be eager to help.”

  He acts as if he’s considering her words, looking again over her shoulder at me. He wants me to agree. She turns to see what he’s looking at and I nod, frantically.

  “Actually,” he says, stealing her attention again, “I would feel quite bad to steal them from their own studies. The work I need their help with is quite menial. If they are anything like me, they’d try to help with the more advanced stages and no doubt ruin my work with their lack of experience. No, I was hoping I could borrow someone on the staff?”

  “That’s impossible, I’m sure you know, Nikolai,” she says apologetically. “The staff cannot be involved in students’ work.”

  He lets out such a dramatic sigh that I have to roll my eyes, before looking at the older woman as if he’s had a brilliant realization. “What about your niece? Miss Wollstonecraft? She’s not staff, if I recall correctly, though she pays for her tuition through working with them.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Browning says slowly. “But certainly you’d want someone with more talents towards... well, anything, really.”

  I scrunch my face at her clear disregard. I want to kick the back of her knee and show her what talents I do have. But Nikolai nods enthusiastically with her. “No, her complete ignorance makes her perfect. She cleans desks and mops floors. No doubt she will be able to clean vials and fetch equipment. Really, if it wasn’t outlawed, a literal trained monkey could do what I require. Miss Wollstonecraft, as simple-minded as she is, would make the perfect trained monkey for me.”

  I glare at Nikolai, but this time he doesn’t look at me. He keeps his enthusiastic eyes directed to Mrs. Browning, his face full of eager excitement as if he were a child asking for an ice cream cone and not a so-called simple-minded assistant. Still Mrs. Browning hesitates.

  “She must earn her keep, you understand,” she begins apologetically but he interrupts her, an answer for that already thought of it seems.

  “Oh, yes, most certainly,” he assures her. “I know how the laboratory staff have complained about the state of my labs, much to my embarrassment. A part of her tasks could be to maintain and clean my labs until it’s more meticulous than even Malcolm’s. It really is a most efficient solution, I believe. I probably should feel bad that she’ll be too exhausted each day to do much of her work after dinner, but at least I can feel as if I’m doing my part to keep her out of trouble. We don’t need her meddling with the other students, certainly, as common as she is.”

  Mrs. Browning hesitates and I feel as if both Nikolai and I are holding our breaths waiting for her answer.

  “Mr. Jekyll, I think that could be a satisfactory assignment,” she says at last. “I will tell Mr. Cornell that starting today, she will be assisting you in place of her afternoon duties.”

  “You are, as always, ever the most generous provider, Mrs. Browning,” Nikolai says with a slight bow, taking her hand in both of his. I almost think he’s going to kiss the back of her hand, but he only squeezes it with a reverent look in his eyes.

  Still, that touch is enough to fluster the woman, who laughs girlishly and tugs her hand away from him. “Behave yourself, Mr. Jekyll. And do not be late for class.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, raising his arm to guide her back down the hall. He doesn’t follow her though, and after a long moment he finally turns to me, his expression turning his Prince Charming looks into a devilish rake.

  “Good morning, Mary,” he says, looking me up and down, taking in my short pajama shorts and my thin tank top. I cross my arms over my chest, unsure if I’m trying to be modest or if I’m just trying to hide my physical reaction to his evident approval. “This is a bit far from your normal humble abode.”

  “Yes.” It’s all I can say. If I tell him that I slept in Victor’s room, he’ll use that against me.

  He steps into the alcove with me and I back up the half step until I’m against the door. I can feel the heat of him along my entire body as he overwhelms me. A single lock of golden hair falls across his forehead as he leans down towards me. I can’t look away from his gaze as much as I feel like I should. His voice is low when he speaks. causing my blood to simmer.

  “Victor may have put you in his bed, Miss Wollstonecraft, but I’ll be putting you on your knees.”

  He leaves, striding down the hall, hands in his pockets, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world while I’m left gaping, my heart racing and my head reeling.

  Chapter Ten

  By the time I make it back to my room, my heart is finally settling. Without checking my phone, though, I know there’s no possible way I can make it to breakfast before it’s over. My room is blissfully ghost-free, my table lamp still on from last night. There’s no way last night could have been real, ghosts weren’t real no matter what I told Malcolm and Victor. I know grief can do strange things to a person, and that’s all this is. It’s all it can be.

  Because if it is real, it means the ghosts want something from me and they won’t stop.

  I feel the knock more than I hear it, a harsh rap against the door and I dive into my bed, curling up on my side towards the wall.

  “Come in,” I say, doing my best imitation of a sickly croak.

  Before I can finish, the door is being pushed open by an irate Mrs. Browning.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she demands, striding the short
distance to my bedside. I almost wonder if she’s going to sit down like a caring mother, but of course she crosses her arms as she glowers from on high.

  “I’m sick, or something,” I say, my throat dry from the excitement of the morning. Thankfully it only adds credence to my statement. “And I’m having the worst cramps. They’re always so awful.”

  They aren’t really, I’m one of the fortunate girls. I remember at one school, three years ago, one girl in my classroom would cramp so badly and bleed so heavily she missed days every cycle. I try to remember how she described them, thanking her for always oversharing.

  “My flow is super heavy,” I tell her, but her expression hardly softens. I act as if I’m about to panic. “I don’t have any pads or tampons, Mrs. Browning”—I start to sniffle—“My mom always got them for me and I don’t even know what I’m going to do now that she’s not here. And it just hurts so bad, I can hardly stand up and—”

  “Enough,” she cuts through my growing hysterics. She’s still staring at me but it’s less of a glare and more a show of annoyance. She rolls her eyes, her hands going to her hips. “You are excused until lunchtime, Miss Wollstonecraft. Feminine supplies are stocked in every restroom. Use those. If you require pain medicine, which it certainly seems you do, then come by my office before you go to lunch. You are not the first girl to have these issues. And like them, you will not let this be an ongoing issue. You know this happens every month, so I expect you to be prepared next month and not miss any of your regular duties or class.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Browning.”

  She gives a sharp nod. “Your schedule will be changing. Mr. Jekyll needs a menial assistant, and due to the nature of the work, I’ve decided that you will be ideal. You will be working with him in the afternoons for the foreseeable future. I expect you to obey him as you do me, is that clear?”