by Amy Cross
“She wasn't looking at the forest,” I explain breathlessly as I follow Josh across the kitchen. “It was dark, she couldn't have seen it anyway. What she could see was her own reflection.”
“So you're saying that the ghost of Catherine Lannister is vain?” he replies.
“I'm saying that she was staring at herself,” I continue. “Come on, it's all so obvious, I can't believe we didn't realize it at once. It's not like she's got some kind of super-vision that allows her to see better at night.”
“As far as we know,” he mutters.
“I'm serious!” Stepping in front of him, I block his way. He sighs, but I know I'm right. “She was staring at her own face,” I continue. “She was looking at herself. Why would someone do that?”
“Maybe she thought she was getting a pimple?”
“Or maybe she recognized herself.”
“What does that even mean?” he asks. “I'm pretty sure she knows what she looks like.”
“Says who?” I reply. “We have no idea how ghosts perceive the world around them. Apparently they don't see us, so what do they see? Do they see the world as it was when they were alive? Are they just empty, mindless vessels drifting around like plumes of smoke? Or are their minds still active in their, even if they struggle to understand what's happening to them? Maybe seeing her own face in that window stirred something. Maybe it made her start to understand.”
“That's quite a leap,” he points out.
“I could see her,” I continue. “She was really clear in the reflection. Well, not entirely clear, but enough to make out her features. And if I could see her, she must have been able to see herself too. It's the only explanation that makes sense.”
He sighs again.
“You're the one who said she looked at you,” I add. “You're the one who first suggested that she wasn't behaving according to the rules. She's done two things now that suggest she's at least partially self-aware.”
“I'm not the one you have to convince,” he replies. “Doctor Carter -”
“I think Doctor Carter believes it too.”
“Well now I know you're joking,” he says. “In case you've forgotten, the man damn near tore me a new hole last night when I mentioned what I'd seen.”
“He's hiding something,” I explain. “I don't know what, but he basically admitted to me earlier that he's keeping something from us. He keeps saying we have to trust him. I think he doesn't want to influence us, he wants to see how we react to whatever happens. And I think his theory might be that these ghosts are way more self-aware that anyone realizes. He denies it when he talks to us, maybe because he wants us to remain impartial, because he doesn't want us to be influenced by his theories. But I'm starting to think that he brought us to Lannister Hall so we can prove that the ghost of Catherine Lannister is...”
I pause, trying to think of the right word to use.
“Sentient?” Josh suggests. “Conscious? Alive?”
“You're not taking this seriously.”
“On the contrary,” he replies, “I'm taking it very seriously indeed. I'm the one she looked at, remember? I'm taking this about as bloody seriously as it's possible to take anything. That's what scares me. Because if the ghost of Catherine Lannister is conscious, then that begs one very important question. Why's she still lurking in Lannister Hall after all these years? What does she want?”
Part Five
Catherine Lannister
I
The window swings open, and I see Jonathan standing outside with a tray of food for me.
“How is she?” I ask, hoping for news that Milly is feeling better this morning. “I heard she was disturbed in the night. Did she finally manage to get some sleep?”
I wait for an answer, but he is merely staring at me. After a moment, I realize that he seems rather troubled by something, as if he's searching my face for some dark, hidden truth.
“Please,” I continue, “talk to me. Tell me about her. If I cannot see her, than I must at least hear how she is doing.”
“Swear to me,” he replies sternly. “Swear you did not leave this side of the house last night.”
“What do you -”
“Swear to me!”
He holds the tray out, and I take it, and then I see that he is holding the Holy Bible. He passes the book to me and, after I have set the tray down, I take it from his hands. This is the very same book that my father always used when he was alive.
“On that book,” Jonathan continues, “and on the memory of your dear, late father, swear to me that you have not found some way out of the east wing of the house.”
“Jonathan, I -”
“Swear!” he snaps.
I step back, startled by this display of anger.
“You will swear,” he continues, sweating a little now, “or – so help me – I will see to it that you do not see freedom again.”
I hesitate, before looking down at my trembling hands. I remember Father holding this very same book. He used to read passages to me when I was a girl, and he was always keen to stress the importance of true faith. I could no more lie in the presence of this book, than I could argue with my dear late father over any matter of conscience. Even though there are tears in my eyes, then, I clutch the book tight and look at Jonathan.
“Upon this book,” I say after a moment, my voice shaking with fear, “I do swear that I did not leave this side of the house last night. Not since you locked me in here.” I take a deep breath. “Now, please, tell me what happened. What caused you to come down here in such a state?”
He stares at me, and for a few seconds I feel as if my very soul is being searched.
“It is of no matter,” he says finally.
“But -”
“I said it is of no matter,” he continues, interrupting me. “You may keep the book with you. It might do you some good to read a few sections. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to Millicent.”
“You must tell me if -”
Before I can finish, he closes the window and walks away. I could call out to him again, of course, but I know that to do so would be a sign of disobedience. I must trust my husband, and I must obey him, so I take a seat and start looking through the book in my hands. Perhaps Jonathan is correct. Perhaps I should indeed seek some guidance in these pages. My soul could certainly use it.
II
“And guide my soul,” I whisper, as I kneel in one of the old bedrooms, “so that I may -”
Before I can finish, I hear a bumping sound.
I instinctively open my eyes and turn to look at the empty doorway, and a moment later I hear the sound again. It is as if there is somebody out there in the corridor, somebody just a little out of view. I wait, wondering whether perhaps Jonathan has come to speak to me again, but now there is only silence.
Telling myself that I must have been mistaken, I close my eyes and return to my prayer.
“And guide my soul,” I say, “so that I may be delivered of -”
Suddenly I hear a banging sound, followed another heavy thud.
Getting to my feet, I turn and look once again toward the door. There is still no sign of anyone, but this time the sounds of commotion continue in the distance, and I finally cross the room and look out into the corridor. At that moment, there is one final loud bump, and then silence once more prevails.
“Jonathan?” I call out. “Milly?”
The only response is silence.
I try telling myself again that these are mere imaginings, but this time I cannot convince myself. I most certainly heard some kind of din, so I start making my way along the corridor, heading back toward the room where I earlier sat and ate. I feel a flicker of fear in my chest, and by the time I get to the far doorway I confess that I have become mighty fearful. When I look through into the next room, this fear is immediately strengthened as I see that the tray and plates have been scattered across the room, as if thrown by some violent force.
I look around, but there is nobody else
here.
“Jonathan?” I say again. “Milly? Are you there?”
I do not dare raise my voice, lest I might be heard by Jonathan in the other side of the house.
Finally I step forward. Reaching down, I pick up the plates – which mercifully have not broken – and then the tray. I try to convince myself that they merely fell from the table, but I know that is simply impossible. I look around, still worried that I might spot some malevolent figure lurking in the shadows, and then I carefully set the tray and plates on the table. This time, I take extra care to make sure that they cannot possibly tumble. I push them to the very center, and then I turn and head back toward the corridor.
Almost immediately, I stop as I hear a scraping sound over my shoulder. It is as if the tray and plates are once more being pushed from the table, but I tell myself not to turn and look, for to do so would be to surrender to dark forces.
A moment later, I hear the bang and clatter of the tray hitting the floor. I can hold back no longer; I turn, just in time to see the plates also landing near my feet.
I look at the table. Or, rather, I look at the empty space where a person would have had to stand if they were pushing items away.
I see nothing.
But, from that nothing, is something staring back at me?
This is foolish.
Forcing myself to retain my composure, I reach down and once again pick up the tray and plate. As I do so, however, my dress rustles and I hear a faint murmur of laughter.
I freeze, telling myself now that there cannot have been any laughter.
Looking once again at the space next to the table, I try to make myself believe that the 'laughter' was just an unfortunate sound caused by my dress. At the same time, the laughter seemed so distinct, as if I was being mocked.
I gather the tray and plates and set them once more on the table, and then I take a step back. I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the table. If some mischievous spirit is minded to play a trick on me, it shall have to do so in full view rather than behind my back. Indeed, I feel that by staring at the items on the table I am rather challenging any spirit to show its face.
Everyone knows that spirits and demons are cowardly things at heart.
Finally, satisfied that there is nothing amiss here, I take a moment to straighten the front of my dress, and then I turn to leave the room.
Suddenly I see that my father's Bible is floating in the air behind me, as if held aloft by some invisible power. And then, before I have time to react, the book is flung at my face. I am hit hard, and with such force that I step back and bump against the table, knocking the plates and tray off as the book crashes down and hits the floor.
The book's spine breaks, and the holy pages spill out in a terrible mess.
For a moment, I am too shocked to know what to do. Indeed, I am too shocked to even breathe. After a few seconds, however, I feel a trickle of something running down the side of my face. I reach up and feel a slight cut on my cheek, caused by the impact of the book, and then I look at my fingers and see that three of them are now tipped with a small amount of blood.
My father's Bible lays scattered on the floor before me, its spine broken and its pages in disarray.
III
“You must look after this book, Catherine,” I hear my father's voice saying gravely in the back of my mind, as I sit and work on repairing his Bible. “It was given to me by my father, and he received from his father before him. It is a good copy.”
I carefully place another page in place. In truth, I am no binder, and I feel certain that I shall have to get the job done professionally. For now, all I can really do is smooth creases from the pages and reassemble them in their proper order. Somehow, even this simple task seems to be an act of defiance against whatever force cause the damage in the first place.
Suddenly hearing a key in a lock, I turn and look toward the back door. A moment later, the door swings open and I see Jonathan stepping in from the garden. And then I feel a flicker of dread as I see that he has brought another, sterner looking man with him. This must be the Doctor Havenhand that Jonathan mentioned, the man who is to examine me.
***
“A colleague of mine once tried to treat a lady by tying live pigeons to her feet,” Doctor Havenhand says calmly, as he continues to examine the cut on my cheek. “He read in some old book that this was key to curing women of their madness. Would you like to know the result?”
“I cannot imagine,” I reply.
“Well, there was a lot of mess, and a lot of bird excrement, and the lady's feet were rather pecked and scratched. The lady was not cured of her madness, however. I don't think tying pigeons to a person's feet is really going to do much good.” He dabs some lotion on my cut. “And the point of this story is to let you know that I am not some charlatan who comes to you with foolish ideas. I am a doctor, and a man of science, and it is my intention to get to the truth of this matter.”
“I am not insane,” I tell him.
“I shall not be tying pigeons to your feet, that's for sure.” He pauses, before sitting back. “And I asked your husband to leave us alone, Mrs. Lannister, because I want to hear your side of the story.”
“What has my husband told you?”
“His side.”
“He wants me locked away.”
“That's not entirely true,” he replies. “He wants you to be made sane again. He wants you to behave. He seems to think that you are imagining things that aren't happening, and that you are a danger to your child.”
I shiver as he says those words.
“Have you ever hurt Millicent, Mrs. Lannister?”
“No!” I gasp, and I can feel tears instantly rushing behind my eyes. “Never!”
“I had to ask.”
“I would give my life for her!”
“I believe you.” He pauses again. “So who has been tormenting her?”
“Have you met her?”
“I have.”
“And you have examined her?”
He nods.
“What did you determine?” I ask.
“Something has most certainly upset her.”
“It is not me,” I tell him. “I would rather die than hurt one hair on her head!”
“Then we must determine the cause of this situation. You trust your husband, I assume.”
“With my life!”
“We have a problem,” he says with a sigh. “The torments come mostly at night?”
“Mostly,” I reply, before hesitating for a moment. This gentleman seems so rational and so pleasant, I am loathe to start speaking about spirits and demons. “Today was the first time that anything happened in daylight.”
“The book was thrown at your face?”
“You don't believe me.”
“I didn't say that.”
“But you don't believe in things like this, do you?” I wait for him to answer, but I can see from the look in his eyes that I'm right. “You're not a religious man, Doctor Havenhand, are you?” I ask.
He hesitates, and then he shakes his head.
“Likewise,” I continue, “you do not believe in anything you cannot see and touch. Anything you cannot explain.”
“I confess I do not.”
“What proof would you require?”
“I would have to see it with my own eyes,” he explains cautiously. “I would have to be offered some rudimentary explanation, at least, of how it works. According to established scientific principles. That is what I am, Mrs. Lannister. I am a man of science. I simply cannot be anything else. I just don't have it within myself. It's not part of my soul.”
“Yet you use the word soul,” I point out. “That is rather telling.”
“A slip of the tongue.” He clears his throat. “Mrs. Lannister,” he adds, “I rather think we should focus our efforts on the task at hand. I have been asked to examine you and to render my opinion on this matter, and I am afraid I must leave late in the afternoon. Please, begin by telling
me, in your own words, what has been happening here. I want to know what you think has been hurting your daughter.”
“I hardly dare say the words,” I tell him, as I feel a tightening sense of fear in my chest.
“You must.”
“You will think me mad!”
“That is for me to determine,” he replies, “but I have heard your husband's version of events. It is imperative that I now hear your version. That is only fair, is it not?”
I stare at him for a moment. Doctor Havenhand seems like such a nice gentleman. He is young, handsome and clearly very intelligent. I fear that he shall consider me a fool as soon as I tell him what I have experienced, and that I shall end up confined in some kind of hospital. Yet I cannot tell a lie, nor can I hold my tongue when the safety and happiness of my daughter are at stake. With fresh tears in my eyes, I take a deep breath and try to work out where to begin.
“It has become very clear to me,” I say finally, “that my husband, my daughter and I are not alone in this house.”
IV
With my ear pressed against the door, I struggle to hear the conversation as Doctor Havenhand bids farewell to Jonathan. They have been talking for the past hour or so in the study, and during that time I was not able to hear anything. Now that they are in the hallway, I can just about make out their voices. So far, it seems that Jonathan is not happy.
“There must be something else you can do,” he says, as footsteps head toward the front door. “I expected answers today, not vague suggestions.”
“And I have told you, Mr. Lannister,” Doctor Havenhand replies, “that I cannot give you absolutes. I have spoken to your wife at length, and I have found her to be a most reasonable woman. I detected none of the signs of madness that I had anticipated.”
“She talks of spirits and demons!” Jonathan hisses.
“I know,” Doctor Havenhand says, “and that is indeed unfortunate. Yet when she speaks of such things, she seems perfectly lucid and level-headed. I cannot, in good conscience, tell you that she is mad.”
