She left and I’d still not exchanged one glance with her. Did she resent my presence there? Hard to tell, as I had never seen a more bland, expressionless face in my life.
“Beryl is an excellent cook. She’s been with me for years and I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
Mrs. Warrender poured the fragrant tea into the cups using a tea strainer. Evidently tea bags weren’t allowed in this house. She handed me a cup.
“Cake?”
I accepted and bit into the lightest Victorian sponge cake I had ever tasted. It practically melted in my mouth.
“Now, before we start, my dear, I must tell you that we have a long tradition here, dating as far back as anyone can remember. We always dress for dinner.”
“Oh, I . . .” I looked down at my black jeans and summer top. Smart enough for daywear, but hardly something I would have worn formally.
“It’s quite all right, my dear. Later, Beryl will show you upstairs. You’ll find something suitable up there, I have no doubt of it. And I understand vintage is all the rage now.”
I smiled and wondered just which vintage her wardrobe was from. For now, though, we had other things to discuss. I took out my notebook and pen from my bag and began, “I understand ‘The Scottish Bride’ refers to a young woman who was brought here to marry into the family, but I don’t know anything else and I wondered if you could fill in any of the gaps. Was there something wrong with her? A mysterious death, perhaps?”
Isobel Warrender smiled. “Back in the 1780s, my ancestors lived in the house immediately before this one. The eldest son was a rather beautiful young man called John Fitzmichael. Our family has always been unusual in that the house passes through the female line, and back then, the heiress was John’s younger sister, Hermione. She was quite a flighty piece, although, once she grew up, she learned to do the right thing.” She paused and stared into space, as if a thought, or some recollection that disturbed her, had flashed through her mind. I didn’t feel I knew her well enough to question her about it, so I waited.
Eventually, she shook her head. “No matter. John had returned from doing the Grand Tour. He’d brought all sorts of treasures back from his travels; some of which are still in this house, which is a miracle in itself. But the one treasure he had not been able to bring back was a young Scottish girl he had met called Celia McEwan. Her father was a rich Scottish laird who owned vast amounts of sheep and land in the Highlands. I don’t know if you’ve heard of the Clearances?”
“When the wealthy Scottish landowners forcibly evicted their tenant farmers so they could farm more sheep?”
“In a nutshell, yes. It caused untold misery and hardship and Lord Robert McEwan was one of the most notorious. That man was blackhearted.”
A chill breeze swept by me. I looked to see if Mrs. Warrender had felt it too, but her expression remained the same as she continued with her story.
“Lord McEwan had big plans for his daughter. He expected her to make a brilliant marriage with another wealthy Scottish family, but three failed attempts later, she remained unwed. By now, she was twenty-one and people were beginning to wonder what was wrong with her. Doors were starting to close on possible suitors. That’s when John Fitzmichael requested her hand and, to his surprise, McEwan readily agreed. Of course, my ancestor lived to regret it, from the moment they exchanged their vows.”
“What did she do?”
Mrs. Warrender seemed about to continue when something distracted her. Again, she looked to her right. This time, I had to ask.
“Is there something about that portrait? You keep staring at it. Who is it?”
I stood and started to make my way toward it. This time, a sudden, violent chill nearly knocked me off my feet with its suddenness and power.
“What the—” I just stopped myself from issuing an expletive, “—I mean, what was that?”
“What, my dear?” She appeared unconcerned, even a little vague.
“The draft. Didn’t you feel it? It shot right through me, as if someone had opened a door in a howling gale.”
“No, I didn’t feel anything. I expect you’re just a little tired from your journey.” She rang the bell again.
I didn’t like to tell her I wasn’t in the least tired—especially given the shock I had just experienced. I wanted to find out more about this Celia McEwan, and about the portrait that drew so much of Mrs. Warrender’s attention.
The door opened and Beryl entered.
“Beryl, will you take Mrs. Carpenter up to the red bedroom? She’s quite tired after her journey and would like a little nap. Then, perhaps, you could draw her a bath and lay something suitable out for her to wear at dinner.”
“Yes, madam.” Beryl motioned me to follow her—the first time she had acknowledged my presence with a look, let alone a gesture.
I was reluctant to follow, but had no wish to offend. As I did so, I wasn’t sure if I imagined the briefest exchange of looks between her and her mistress.
• • • •
The bedroom lived up to its adjective. The thick velvet drapes, hangings on the four-poster bed and even the carpet were red. Not vivid, more of a subtle deep shade, the fabric interwoven with a leafy design in gold thread.
Beryl said nothing, turned down the eiderdown and made her way over to the massive walnut double wardrobe. She opened it and I saw a long row of dresses, each covered in a clear protective garment bag. She moved hanger after hanger until she came across one that met with her approval. She extracted it and draped it over her arm, where it was soon accompanied by two more. Once finished, she had no choice but to speak to me.
“I’m sure these will be to your satisfaction, madam. I believe you will find them a good fit.”
She left and I stared at the sumptuous gowns, now laid out on the bed for my inspection. A full-length cheval mirror stood next to the dressing table and I held first one dress and then the next up against me.
Out of the three, one captured my imagination. Peacock blue, the top seemed to be some kind of silk chiffon, heavily embroidered in a pattern of linden leaves, with tiny blue-black beads. The main body of the dress was in soft, shimmering blue silk, its drop waist accented by a broad sewn-in belt. The effect was lavish, extravagant, and the dress looked as if it had just been purchased and never worn. I also discovered it could have been made for me, as I slipped it on and paraded in front of the mirror.
Only my feet and hair looked wrong. My smart flat shoes were fine for what I had worn today, but this dress demanded fancy shoes or strappy sandals.
I searched the wardrobe floor and was rewarded with a selection of shoeboxes. Each revealed brand-new, or barely worn, soft-leather shoes, mostly with old-fashioned twenties heels. After examining half a dozen pairs, I came across some that could have been bought to wear just with that dress. They were a midnight-blue, soft fabric, with glittering diamanté buckles. My feet slipped into them like Cinderella trying on the glass slipper.
Back in front of the mirror, I clasped my long, dark hair behind me. If I had hairgrips, I could twist it into a knot at the back.
The dressing table was laid with a glass tray containing an arrangement of pots. As I lifted each lid, they were all empty. Except one. In that, I found hairpins and, after a few failed attempts, my hair decided to do as I wished and remain up. I stepped back and appraised myself full length.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Beryl had come to run my bath. I registered her look of wide-eyed surprise as she saw me already dressed.
“I didn’t need a nap, so I thought I would dress now,” I said.
Beryl clasped her hands in front of her and her mouth set in a thin, disapproving line.
“Very well, madam.”
“Thank you, Beryl.”
She left. I had the impression I had broken some rule of hers by not taking my prescribed nap or requiring her to draw my bath. I sighed and put the finishing touches to my appearance. A quick touch-up of makeup from my bag and, with the exce
ption of bare legs (fortunately recently shaved), I looked presentable enough for anyone’s dining table.
I looked at my watch. Six-thirty. With no idea when dinner was served, and an aroma of roasting pork wafting up from downstairs, I decided to make my way downstairs.
I grabbed my bag and strolled down the dark, carpeted hallway to the wide, sweeping staircase. I touched the banister. Pain shot up my arm, as if the wood were electrified. I cried out. Snatched my hand away.
Isobel appeared at the doorway of the drawing room. One glance at me, and a strange look passed over her face. “Whatever happened?”
“I don’t know. I feel as if I’ve had an electric shock, but I know that’s impossible.”
“Come down and Beryl will get you a glass of sherry. I’m afraid dinner isn’t served until eight o’clock, but you are welcome to rest in the drawing room. I shall be going to my room for an hour or so.”
I assumed that meant we would resume our discussion of Celia McEwan over dinner, so I happily accepted her offer, and the tingling, burning sensation in my right arm gradually faded.
• • • •
Sherry in hand, and left alone, now was my opportunity to examine the portrait that seemed to capture Isobel so much. He would have been handsome in any era, but this man was dressed as a late eighteenth-century nobleman. His dark hair and long sideburns reminded me of the Scottish poet Robert Burns, but this man had an almost hypnotic quality about his clear brown eyes. He was posed with his head facing to his right, a slight smile playing around his lips, and his white cravat was immaculately wrapped and tied around his neck. I looked for an inscription and found it on the gilt frame—John Fitzmichael 1755-1789. So this must have been painted toward the end of his life, cut tragically short somehow in his thirty-fourth year.
The late afternoon sun cast bright rays through the tall windows. I moved around the room and gazed out over the courtyard, where my car windows glinted in the sunlight. I looked beyond, down the avenue of trees.
A shadow darted across from one side to another, so fast I couldn’t make it out. A bird perhaps? A crow or raven? Except this shadow didn’t fly. It had no wings. I was sure of that. This shadow had run across the avenue. Cold fear gripped my stomach.
I shook my head. It had to be a trick of the light—shadows cast by the light filtering through the branches. I waited for something, anything, so I could make sense of it.
Murmuring, like a gentle breeze through summer leaves, fluffed my hair. A hand touched my shoulder, featherlight and cool. I closed my eyes.
“Run and hide . . . run and hide . . .”
I spun around. The room was empty, so who had touched me? Who had spoken?
Something on the floor caught my attention. I bent to pick it up. A tiny fragment of lace. I turned it over in my hand. Where had it come from? I was sure it wasn’t there a few minutes earlier. And why was one corner of it scorched? Part of the rhyme came into my head:
Don’t turn your head,
Lest it be said,
You saw the lace,
On her blackened face.
I shuddered and dropped the lace. A second later, I couldn’t see it anywhere.
Leave that house. Yes, that’s what I should have done. But I told myself how ridiculous I was being. If I left now, it would be rude to my hostess, who had done everything to make me welcome. And I could kiss my dissertation goodbye. I could never count on her cooperation if I ran out on her.
No, I was being foolish and my imagination had gone into overdrive. I would stay, enjoy a delicious dinner, change back into my street clothes and leave, armed with the rest of the information I needed about the mysterious and sinister Scottish bride.
I should have trusted my instincts. But I didn’t.
© 2014 by Catherine Cavendish.
Excerpted from the novella “Linden Manor,”
from anthology What Waits in the Shadows.
Published by permission of Samhain Publishing.
All rights reserved.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Catherine Cavendish is a paranormal horror writer living in North Wales. She was one of four winners of Samhain Publishing’s first Gothic Horror Anthology Competition. Her first novel, Saving Grace Devine, was released this summer by Samhain Publishing. For more information, visit her at catherinecavendish.com.
NONFICTION
Artist Spotlight: Five Women Artists Who Are Destroying Horror Art
Galen Dara
I love artists. They are the best kind of people. I highly recommend you take any opportunity you can to find yourself in a room full of them (preferably when they happen to have sketchbooks in hand). When I was asked if I could find a few amazing women to do the artwork for the Women Destroy Horror! issue of Nightmare Magazine, I happened to be attending the Illustration Masters Class. I looked up from my laptop, glanced around the studio I was working in, and immediately emailed back “Why yes, I think I can.” Directly across from me were Carly Janine Mazur, Reiko Murakami, and Sam Guay, all hard at work on incredible (and rather creepy) paintings. On a visit to this year’s Spectrum Fantastical Art Live event, I just randomly happened to bump into Shelby Nichols at the bar and was immediately taken with her colorful self and her portfolio of deliciously dark drawings. I haven’t yet had a chance to meet Stacy Ngyuen face-to-face, but we both had art in the first issue of Lackington’s and I fell in love with her stunning graphic style; I knew that her artistic interpretation would be a fantastic edition to the lineup.
Here’s a brief question and answer session with these amazing artists. I hope you get the opportunity to get to know them even better—expect big things from this bunch!
What led you to working as an illustrator in the speculative fiction field?
Sam Guay: I wanted to be able to share the stories and images dancing around my head, and I found illustration to be the means by which I was able to do that.
Carly Janine Mazur: I grew up with comics, cartoons, and most important, video games. Fortunately for me, my older brother and I got along very well and shared the same interests. We both were able to foster each other’s creative endeavors and immerse ourselves in fantasy worlds via video games and tabletop gaming. I remember when Magic: The Gathering came out in the early 90s and my little kid mind was blown away by the artwork on the cards, and at that instant I knew I wanted to be an artist!
Reiko Murakami: Drawing is my natural habit. I went to art school for animation and film, then I got into the video game industry and I worked on 3d modeling, character animation, and visual effects, but concept art and digital painting feel the best fit for me. I still work in the video game art field, and recently, especially after taking the IMC [the Illustrations Masters Class], I would like to be involved more in the illustration and publishing. IMC opened up my mind that there are a lot of things I can learn and get better as an artist outside my current career.
Stacy Nguyen: It was by happy accident and cronyism. Prior, I mostly illustrated editorial content in newspapers and for marketing/branding stuff. My good friend LiAnn Yim is co-editor of the awesome spec fiction journal, The Golden Key, which has a guest illustrator every issue. She randomly asked me if I wanted to illustrate an issue one night. I love working with LiAnn so I said yes. Then did it. And through that experience made a lot of cool new friends and contacts, illustrated a few more things, made some more new friends like you, Galen. And here we are. So that’s what got the ball rolling.
Shelby Nichols: Even as a young child, I’ve enjoyed hearing and telling stories. I would spin wild yarns after school, and my mom always used to call me Spielberg. Speculative fiction has a particular lure in that it’s so imaginative. You get to peek into other worlds that people have made and live alternate lives. It makes me feel like I’ve lived a thousand times within the pages of my books, and I get a lot of inspiration from fantastical stories.
What do you like about the horror genre specifically?
Guay: I enjoy the uncer
tainty and fragility that comes with facing our fears. Stories that are haunting and uncanny while remaining believable are my favorite of the horror genre.
Mazur: What I love about horror is how subtle it can be. Although I do love my fair share of slasher movies, my favorite horror is psychological, the stuff that digs down deep and is so close to home that it leaves you with this ill feeling in the pit of your stomach. Of my work the best compliment I have ever gotten was how beautiful, but deeply disconcerting it is. That’s where my passion lies.
Murakami: I like how it’s visually flexible. I enjoy being expressive and letting my imagination go crazy sometimes.
Nguyen: That it’s gross and dark. Also that it’s largely about what’s unseen—fear—which is an interesting conundrum when illustrating, because when we draw stuff, we are making something that is seen, like literally. So there’s a fun puzzle in figuring out ways to convey emotions like fear and disgust and horror without like, drawing it outright and pointing an arrow to it and going, “Yo, she’s super scared. Right here.” Horror seemed to fit my illustration preferences well.
Nichols: I’ve always been drawn to horror and darkness. I was raised on movies like Alien and used to draw torture chambers and all manner of grotesque creatures on my school folders. There is a special feeling I get from the horror genre, a sense of mystery, power, and beauty that I feel I can’t get anywhere else.
Who are some of your artistic influences? Where do you get inspiration from?
Guay: Many of my influences are Golden Age illustrators such as Arthur Rackham and Edmund Dulac. My inspiration comes from the curiosities of the natural world, folklore, and dreams.
Mazur: I have a lot of influences, especially because I incorporate realism and abstraction/design into my work. I will find pieces done by others online and I will see one element or component that really resonates with me, like how they handled brushstrokes, the use of empty space, line work, or how a design element was handled.
Murakami: Kazuhiro Fujita, Brom, a number of my artist friends and instructors. I often go to art community sites like ArtStation and DeviantArt for inspiration, but the concept comes from inside my mind.
Nightmare Magazine Issue 25, Women Destroy Horror! Special Issue Page 17
