The Garden of Bewitchment

by Catherine Cavendish

  “I’m sorry, Evelyn, but I’ve looked everywhere – under the beds, in wardrobes… She isn’t there.”

  Evelyn sank into the cushions, her head throbbing.

  “I’ll get you some water and some aspirin.”

  Another knock at the door. Matthew answered it.

  “Mr. Skelton. Hello. Please come in.”

  He did so. “I’m sorry to intrude, but it was merely to tell you… Oh, my dear Miss Wainwright, whatever is the matter?”

  “She’s had a bit of an accident,” Matthew said quickly.

  “I hope it’s nothing too serious. You look very pale. I only came round to tell you the horses came back by themselves yesterday. I don’t know where they had been for the past five days, but they were perfectly safe and sound, and I also wanted to apologize for leaving you. Most cowardly of me.”

  “Don’t mention it, Mr. Skelton,” Matthew said. “To put it mildly, we’ve all had quite an unnerving experience all round. And one I don’t think any of us want to repeat in a hurry.”

  “Very wise, if I may say so. You know, old Mrs. Sutcliffe at the bakery said she heard the wolves again. She always likes to be the first with any new gossip.”

  “We heard them too,” Evelyn said before she could stop herself. “Not long after you left us.”

  The neighbor looked inquiringly at Matthew. He nodded.

  “Goodness me,” Mr. Skelton said.

  “Did you happen to find anything in the saddlebags?” Evelyn asked. “A manuscript?”

  Mr. Skelton looked at her curiously. “No, nothing of that sort. Did you lose it?”

  “No matter.” Evelyn waved her hand dismissively.

  Matthew brought her the water and laudanum. She accepted them gratefully.

  Matthew straightened his waistcoat. “I sincerely hope I never hear those beasts again.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Sutcliffe had more to tell. Apparently she reckons she saw the ghost of the old squire in your yard, Miss Wainwright.”

  “When?” Evelyn croaked.

  “Last night. The weather kept her awake, and she was making herself some hot milk when she chanced to look out of her kitchen window. She saw him in the lamplight from your window. Clear as I am standing here. She had seen an old photograph of him, so she knew who she was looking at, and it wasn’t the first time she had seen him either. She saw him in your yard a few days earlier, on the same day I took you to Monkton Hall. Once again, it was nighttime.”

  “He certainly had a busy time,” Evelyn said.

  “Indeed. He wasn’t alone either.”

  “Who was he with?” Matthew asked.

  “Now here’s the strangest part. Mrs. Sutcliffe said he had a ghostly-looking girl with him. Wraithlike and almost transparent, but she looked so much like you, Miss Wainwright. In fact, Mrs. Sutcliffe was convinced it was you until she realized she could see right through her.”

  “Claire,” Evelyn said.

  “But your sister isn’t a wraith, is she?” Mr. Skelton asked.

  Evelyn thought back to the vicious animal Claire had become when she attacked her. No, her sister was no wraith. She felt the scratches on her neck and face. Tender, raw, stinging. And then there was Claire’s skin… Whatever had caused that? Could it be consuming her body?

  “I daresay we shall know more in time,” Mr. Skelton said. “I had better take my leave of you now. I do hope you will soon be quite recovered, Miss Wainwright.”

  “Thank you,” Evelyn said, wondering yet again why her neighbor’s words seemed sorely at odds with the tone in which he uttered them.

  Matthew saw him out.

  “You realize this will be all over the village?” he said with a smile as he returned to her side.

  Evelyn gave him a questioning look.

  “Two single people of the opposite sex alone in a cottage together. The old ladies will be clacking their knitting needles.”

  “Claire,” Evelyn said, pointing upstairs.

  “True. They don’t know she isn’t up there. Come to that, I’ll go and search for her now. Are you all right if I leave you alone?”

  Evelyn nodded and smiled. She was glad he had offered to look for Claire. Despite what had happened between them, she was still her sister and in danger.

  Matthew left, and Evelyn closed her eyes, exhausted.

  “You didn’t think I’d let him find me, did you?”

  Evelyn’s eyes snapped open.

  Claire stood in front of her, a look of hatred on her face.

  Evelyn tried to stand, but her body – still too weak after the battering it had received – wouldn’t support her. She sank down again.

  Claire sneered at her. “How does it feel, dear sister? To know you are the weak one and I am the stronger of us now?”

  “Why are you doing this? What has happened to you?”

  “Found your voice again, I see. Even if it is a pitiful squeak. I am doing it because I can. Because he whom I serve has given me the power. Branwell showed me the way. He shared the truth with me.”

  “What truth?”

  Claire stared upward as if in prayer. “Qui vitam in proxima saecula cupiunt eum adsectuentur qui antea est et sempiternam regnat. Do you know what that means, sister?”

  Evelyn had heard it before. It was in the book, and Matthew had translated it. “I know enough to recognize you are in league with the Devil.”

  Claire laughed. An unpleasant and raucous sound. “The Devil? How little you know, dear sister. But you will soon enough. For now, you are coming with me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Evelyn was immediately struck by the coziness of the room, even if too many knickknacks led to an impression of being a trifle overcrowded. The mantelpiece virtually groaned under the weight of silver ornaments, an ornate clock with a glass dome and photographs of people Evelyn didn’t recognize. Nor did she recognize the room – or remember how she had arrived here. She had been lying on her settee, her throat burning, and the woman who looked like her sister had threatened her. Then, without warning, she was here. Claire stood a few feet away, watching her every reaction. Evelyn touched her throat and felt the tender bruising.

  “Where is this place?” she asked.

  “Branwell’s room. See?” Claire pointed at a wall covered with sketches, some only half-finished. “This is his work. He has such talent.”

  Evelyn nodded. They looked like the scribbles of a drunkard, in sharp contrast to a portrait hanging on the wall. An elderly man with white hair sat in profile, his long, elegant fingers curled around a prayer book or maybe a small Bible.

  “Reverend Patrick Brontë, Branwell’s father. An excellent likeness, don’t you think?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I never met the gentleman and neither did you.”

  Claire laughed. An unpleasant, grating sound that set Evelyn’s teeth on edge.

  “What’s happened to you, Claire?”

  “To me? Nothing. To you? Everything.”

  Evelyn couldn’t begin to understand what she meant. She only knew the woman standing in front of her was a stranger.

  The door opened, and a man of medium stature, reddish-brown hair and a certain swagger entered.

  “Ah, Branwell,” Claire said, going to him and taking his hand. “You haven’t been properly introduced to my sister, have you? This is Evelyn. Evelyn, meet Branwell Brontë. My husband.”

  “Your…husband?”

  Branwell smiled, and his face transformed. His eyes narrowed until they were no more than slits. His nose peeled back, disappearing into his face, leaving only two small holes. He reached out his hand, and Evelyn recoiled from the sight of peeling skin, reptilian-like claws and scales and the overwhelming stench of sulfur.

  All the while, Claire laughed. Louder and louder. “You may as well give in, sister. He has you. The
master has you.”

  * * *

  “Evelyn. Evelyn. Wake up.”

  Matthew’s voice, a hand on her shoulder, shaking her. Evelyn opened her eyes to the familiar surroundings of her cottage drawing room. She put her hand to her head. “I had the nightmare to end all nightmares.”

  “You sounded like it. I came back, and you were thrashing around on the sofa.”

  Evelyn tried to clear the fog in her head. “Any sign of Claire?”

  “No one has seen her. I’ll check upstairs again in case she came back.”

  He left her and returned moments later. “Nothing. It’s as if she simply vanished.”

  “Not for the first time.”

  “No.” Matthew eyed her curiously. “How long has she had this fixation with Branwell Brontë?”

  “Ever since we were children. We read prodigiously, and any books by the Brontës were always our favorites. Then we started to learn about them as people and Claire decided Branwell had become her favorite, even though he didn’t write any books. Well, not as an adult anyway.”

  “There is a theory he wrote Wuthering Heights.”

  “We heard that too, but we dismissed it.”

  “Why? It sounds perfectly plausible to me.”

  “Have you ever read Wuthering Heights, Matthew?”

  “Yes. Most of it anyway. I did grow a little tired of Cathy’s selfish ways.”

  “Do you honestly believe a man could have captured that quite as effectively as the author of that book?”

  “I can see we are going to have to agree to differ, because I detected a distinctly masculine tone in the story. I find it hard to believe a parson’s daughter who had never been much further than her own front door could have written something quite so racy.”

  “But Emily Brontë ventured much further. She lived in Brussels with her sister Charlotte for a time.”

  “At school.”

  “True, but it expanded her mind. They were a highly intelligent family. Precociously intelligent, in fact. They wrote tiny books as children and invented their own worlds.”

  “Northangerland and Glass Town.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Rather like your Calladocia.”

  Evelyn’s breath caught in her throat. He knew about Calladocia? But if that were the case, was he…? “How did you know about that?”

  Matthew smiled. “I know a little more than you think, Evelyn.”

  His tone unnerved her, and her skin prickled. “How do you know about Calladocia?”

  “When we were in the house. The manuscript you picked up, the one you said you and your sister were working on. All those loose sheets. I saw what was written on them. Some of it anyway.”

  Evelyn sighed, relieved to hear a simple explanation for a change. “I see. Yes, you’re right. Claire and I created Calladocia when we were children, and, rather like the Brontës, we continue to add little adventures from time to time.”

  “Involving Lady Mandolyne, I presume?”

  “Sometimes. Yes. She is mainly Claire’s character. I have my own.” She remembered the completed manuscript. “Perhaps I should say I had my own. There seems little point in continuing with it now.”

  “Have you ever thought of writing something on your own?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Strange, but until he suggested it, she had never considered writing without Claire.

  “It would be the natural progression, though, wouldn’t it? I mean, if you’re following in the footsteps of the Brontës.”

  “But we’re not. Not consciously.”

  “Aren’t you? It seems to me to be exactly what you are doing.”

  Evelyn didn’t like the way the conversation was heading. “Can we concentrate on Claire, please? My sister is missing again.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “What do you mean ‘am I sure’?” Evelyn felt her anger rising. What was this? An interrogation? “Of course she’s missing. She isn’t here, and I don’t know where she’s gone.”

  “That seems to happen all too frequently, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Matthew inhaled deeply. “All right, Evelyn. I apologize. You’re correct, of course. We must set about finding your sister.”

  “I’m worried she’s been dragged back into that awful house.”

  “Surely she wouldn’t be stupid enough to go out there by herself?”

  “She might not have had any choice. Something is parading itself as Branwell Brontë and sucking her into its world. I’m convinced of it, and it’s dragging us in with it.”

  “Interesting you should say that, because the professor has a similar theory.” Matthew removed an envelope from his inside pocket and opened it. “This letter arrived earlier. He must have worked on the book during the night and written his response first thing this morning. He says, ‘I have found a most curious section, which appears to relate to Miss Wainwright and her sister. Like you, I am experiencing changes within the book itself. It is as if it is a living thing. Roughly translated, it says the spirit of one shall enter the body of another. The two shall become one, as once they were. The one who shall remain will follow the master. It is written and cannot be undone. Though she may fight, she cannot prevail. The one who is inside her will push her onwards. It is written and it shall be.’ He goes on to say, ‘That section has appeared in the book since the last time I looked at it. Another illustration has appeared too. I think you should see it. Please be advised I shall arrive in Thornton Wensley tomorrow afternoon. I shall make my own way to your cottage and would be grateful if Miss Evelyn Wainwright also attends.’”

  “Again he doesn’t include Claire.”

  Matthew hesitated. He seemed to be about to say something else but settled for, “No, he doesn’t. But as we don’t know where she is at this moment, then that is probably no bad thing. Maybe the illustration will help us.”

  “The book is evil, Matthew. How can it possibly help us?”

  “By making us aware of what is going on. You heard what the professor said and what we also know to be true. The book is sentient. It is able to adapt to changing situations.”

  “I still say it’s like a cat playing with a mouse. It dangles a tantalizing amount of information before us and then snaps shut.”

  “Let’s see what the professor has to show us. In the meantime, try not to worry too much about Claire. She’ll turn up. Right now she’s probably somewhere perfectly safe.”

  “I hope you’re right, Matthew, but I can’t help worrying. You didn’t see her as I did the last time. I am convinced she is possessed. Whatever attacked me…whatever was in the same room as me, it wasn’t my sister, and I want her back.”

  * * *

  Professor Mapplethorpe rocked a little on his small feet. His pipe lay in his top pocket, and the book lay open on Matthew’s dining table.

  “This is the illustration I was referring to. No sign of it when I first looked at that section, but now, here it is.”

  Evelyn and Matthew looked down at the figures, clearly depicted in a Victorian room. Evelyn gasped and jumped back.

  Matthew caught her arm. “Whatever’s the matter, Evelyn?”

  “I’ve seen that room. In a nightmare I had. I was there.”

  Matthew and the professor looked more closely at the picture.

  Matthew straightened. “You’re not in the picture now.”

  “No, but look. It’s Claire, and she’s wearing a wedding ring. The other character is Branwell Brontë.” Evelyn stepped back. The sight before her revolted her.

  “That creature is hardly a man,” the professor said. “He doesn’t have hands; he has claws, and the eyes are those of a reptile.”

  “And that’s what he became in my nightmare. One minute Claire introduced him as
her husband, and the next he transformed into…” She pointed at the engraving.

  “She has a curious quality about her,” the professor said. “Look, Matthew.”

  He bent lower. “Yes, I see it now.”

  “What?” Evelyn asked.

  Matthew took a few steps sideways. “Come and see for yourself.”

  Evelyn took the few steps to the table and looked down. There Claire stood, smiling broadly, gazing proudly at the monster she called her husband. But, worse still, Evelyn could see the design on the wallpaper behind her. “I can see straight through her. She has no substance.”

  The professor took his pipe out of his pocket and began to fill it with tobacco. “And did she appear like that in your dream?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so.”

  The professor nodded.

  “What does it mean?” Matthew asked.

  “I think Evelyn knows.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Oh, I agree you don’t realize you know, but you do. It will come to you in time. I am confident of that.”

  “But what about Claire? Is she in danger? Where is she?”

  The professor lit his pipe. He took so long over it Evelyn’s fingers itched with the desire to wrench it out of his hand and throw it on the floor. Finally he spoke.

  “I don’t think you need to worry over your sister, Miss Wainwright. I am perfectly sure she is out of harm’s way.”

  “But she’s with that…that…thing.” Evelyn stabbed her finger on the figure and winced at the shock hitting her with the force of a thunderbolt.

  “Yes, it’s probably wise not to do that,” Professor Mapplethorpe said. “Remember, this book isn’t like any other. It senses. It feels and responds. As for the creature with your sister, it won’t harm her.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because it’s not her it wants.”

  “Who then?”

  “Why, you, of course, Miss Wainwright. It’s always been you.”

  Evelyn swallowed. “Why would you say that, Professor? How can you possibly know?”

  The professor tapped the book with his pipe stem. “It’s all in here. Down to the last detail.”