The professor folded over the sheet of paper.
“Utter nonsense,” Evelyn said. “Claire is as real as you or I. Matthew told you. He has met her. Where did you get this from, anyway?”
“The letter is signed Edward Skelton.”
“Skelton? Not Mr. Skelton, our neighbor?”
“The very same.”
“But…how?”
It couldn’t be true. None of it. “I need you to explain, Professor.” Looking at Matthew, at the way he yet again avoided her eyes, Evelyn said, “You knew about this, didn’t you? Is this why you came here? To spy on me? To try to trick me with this nonsense? What are you after? My money? You want to have me committed to an insane asylum and then, somehow, get hold of my money. This is all one gigantic confidence trick.”
Matthew reached for her hand, but she pulled away. “Evelyn, please. I’m as confused by this as you are. Professor, what is this nonsense? Is Evelyn right? Is someone after her money?”
The professor rummaged in the box once more. “I can assure you this is no ruse to extort money from Miss Wainwright, although I can understand why it would seem like that to you. Mr. Skelton was quite a renowned psychiatrist in his day. It is, as you may know, a relatively new and misunderstood profession, but he has played his part on debunking a lot of nonsense. You have yourself played an unconscious role here.” He nodded toward Evelyn, who bristled.
“Oh, have I really? And as for this ridiculous assertion that I invented Claire…” Words failed her, and she shook her head.
The professor calmly opened another sheet of paper. “These are notes from a series of sessions with you when you were fourteen.”
Matthew stared, his lips slightly parted.
“But if I did go through these so-called sessions,” Evelyn said, “why can’t I remember any of them? As far as I am aware, the first time I met Mr. Skelton was in the lane outside here after we moved in.”
“You don’t remember, because Mr. Skelton put you in a state of deep hypnosis, as you will hear.” Professor Mapplethorpe started to read. “‘The patient, Evelyn Wainwright, appeared agitated and unwilling to cooperate at first. She insisted her sister was at home waiting for her and would be concerned if she did not return within the hour. As yet, I have made no progress in helping her to realize her sister is a myth created by her own imagination. After some persuasion, she did tell me she and Claire were writing stories together and that Claire had formed a strong affection for Branwell Brontë of the famous literary family. This had been the cause of some friction between them as Evelyn had tried to persuade her “sister” that Branwell couldn’t possibly be visiting her as she claimed. She then refused to be questioned further, and I took the decision to induce a state of deep hypnosis in order to attempt to gain access to whatever trigger existed in her brain capable of causing such deeply held convictions. I fully realize my action in doing so may leave me open to question, but I have taken the precaution of securing her parents’ written agreement to the procedure—’”
Evelyn sprang to her feet. “Stop. Please! I can’t hear any more of this. I won’t. What do you want from me?”
Matthew went to comfort her, but she shrugged him off and turned on him.
“As for you. You’re the biggest traitor of them all. I suppose you’re going to tell me I made up The Garden of Bewitchment and you went along with me. That it never really happened and I imagined it all.”
“No, Evelyn. I’m not. And I haven’t a clue what the professor is talking about when it comes to Claire. All I know is I am mixed up in your life because of that damned toy. The first time I met you, I recognized you, but I couldn’t tell you at the time. Now I must.”
“Recognized me? Where from?”
“All those years ago, in the attic of my uncle’s house. You were one of the figures in the drawing room. Remember how you told me, when you found yourself in the doll’s house, everything was made of cardboard? Even part of you when you touched your foot to the floor of the drawing room. Just for a second or two? And then again, at Monkton Hall. The figures in the dolls’ house… We both saw them. One doll for each of us. Me, you, Mr. Skelton even… We are joined together in this in a way I don’t understand, but, nevertheless, it’s true.”
Evelyn stared at him. It seemed every word served only to make things worse. Had she truly gone out of her mind? No. They were up to something. Trying to convince her she was mad. Well, they wouldn’t succeed. She would find Claire. Whatever it took.
She wouldn’t give Matthew the satisfaction of a reply, and, after a pause, he spoke. “You have distinctive eyes, Evelyn, and the drawing of the figures was so accurate. I never forgot those eyes, and I am looking at them now.”
Was he flirting with her? Trying to win her round? She ignored him.
“Miss Wainwright,” Professor Mapplethorpe said, “please understand, everybody has acted with the best of intentions. The rest of the information in this box goes on to describe many subsequent sessions between you and Mr. Skelton. Never once did you cooperate, and, in the end, he had to admit defeat, but, for your own protection, he made sure you wouldn’t remember what had transpired in his consulting room. You will recall your parents were reluctant to let you leave home. The servants were sworn to secrecy – some more willingly than others, it has to be said. Promises, later fulfilled, of comfortable pensions helped with the more intransigent. I don’t believe the solicitor listed all the bequests at the reading of the will?”
Evelyn continued to stare straight ahead of her.
“Eventually, of course, the one thing your parents couldn’t protect you from was their own mortality. They went along with your fantasies while they were alive. I understand from Mr. Skelton that this was an agreement between them. Left to your own devices, you seemed to grow much calmer. The relationship between you and ‘Claire’ seemed to evolve into a mainly harmonious one. Going out of the house proved problematical, I understand. People used to stare when you went along the street talking to yourself. You grew to dislike the unwarranted attention and to feel uncomfortable living in a large town, hence the move to Thornton Wensley, where, it so happened, Mr. Skelton lived. You gave him quite a shock the first time he saw you.”
Matthew coughed. “I know you must feel deceived, Evelyn, but, I can see now, the professor is right. We have all been brought together not through a seemingly impossible series of coincidences but as a result of a carefully orchestrated plan.”
Evelyn tensed. “You will forgive me if I find it very hard to swallow. Especially as my sanity has been called into question. In fact, you have, between you, declared me insane.”
“But, Miss Wainwright,” the professor said, “nothing could be further from the truth. You are most certainly not insane.”
“Professor, if someone came to me and said they had been told they had imagined a sister for their entire lifetime, I should believe they were insane.”
“Then you would be wrong. Very wrong.”
“What would you call it then?”
“Certainly an illness of the mind. An illusion created by an overly active imagination, but insanity?” The professor shook his head. “Never. In all other respects you behave rationally and thoughtfully. You have not been a threat to yourself or anyone around you. With the possible exception of today…”
Evelyn fingered the scratches. He had suggested she had done this to herself. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Would she?
Matthew cleared his throat. “I still don’t understand how the woman I met who called herself Claire could not exist. Granted she looked identical to Evelyn, except a more untidy version perhaps, but I cannot believe she doesn’t exist.”
“That’s because she does. Exist, I mean. In Evelyn’s mind she is as real as you or I, and that is how she can present herself as an entirely different personality.” The professor addressed himself to Evelyn. “You
are categorically not insane, Miss Wainwright. However, I will reiterate. You do need professional help to come to terms with your…condition.”
“You are splitting hairs, Professor.”
“Evelyn, please,” Matthew said. “This is getting us nowhere. Will you at least agree to see a psychiatrist, perhaps one recommended by Mr. Skelton? Then we will know the truth once and for all.”
Evelyn looked from one to the other. Did she really have anything to lose? Claire existed. Of course she did. So if a psychiatrist told the professor and Matthew so, they would have to believe them and this nonsense could end right now.
“Very well,” she said quietly, staring down at her hands. “But I will not consent to any…operations.”
The professor nodded and stood, appearing anxious to leave. “I will arrange an appointment with someone of Mr. Skelton’s choosing. It will probably be in Leeds.”
“And why would my sister need a psychiatrist?” The voice came from the stairs.
Evelyn caught sight of her as she descended the final step. “Claire!” She dashed over to her. “Where have you been? What happened?” Evelyn gave a silent prayer of thanks. All trace of the beast had gone from her eyes, which now surveyed the astonished men.
“With Branwell. We had work to do. My, we do have some surprised faces here, don’t we? Hello, Professor. Matthew, a pleasure to see you again.”
“Claire!” he exclaimed and stared at the professor, whose face had blanched.
The two sisters stood, arms interlocked.
“What? Nothing to say, Professor?” Claire’s voice held more than a trace of a sneer.
Professor Mapplethorpe blinked at her.
“Where have you been?” Matthew asked.
Claire released herself from her sister and took a few steps closer to the table. “Oh, here and there,” she said with a slight wave of her hand. The other hand touched the book. “I see you have managed to keep it here. How useful. Oh, and the famous box. Made from the same combination of metals, with a heavy concentration of iron. They say iron repels the devil, but if that was the case, why would witches make cauldrons from it? No, the devil has plenty of uses for iron and every other metal. Some are forged in hell itself. Like this book.” Claire tapped it, and the cover flew open. The pages skipped through until they stopped. She looked down at it. “Another new picture, I see. It’s amazing how it does this, isn’t it, Ev? Come and see.”
Evelyn moved closer until she could see the illustration. She recoiled from it.
Claire laughed. “You should have believed,” she said to the professor. “And so should you.” She pointed at Evelyn. “My own sister. Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh. Bone of my bone.” She moved around the table. “Except it’s not quite like that, is it, sister?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Suddenly fearful, Evelyn backed away as Claire’s eyes filled with that other presence.
“You are not flesh, blood and bone, are you?”
“Of course I am.”
Claire gave another dismissive wave of her hand. “And, as for you, dear Professor. You are most certainly not what you appear to be.”
The professor stood firm. His gaze did not waver, although he must have known what was coming.
“Professor?” Matthew asked. “What is she talking about?”
“Look around you, Matthew,” Claire said. “What do you see?”
“The drawing room. In your cottage.”
Claire chuckled and turned to Evelyn. “Now it’s your turn, Ev. What do you see?”
“What is this all about, Claire? You know perfectly well we are in our cottage.”
“Are you sure? Look again. Both of you. The professor can see it already, can’t you?”
He nodded slowly but said nothing.
The room was no longer there. She, Claire, Matthew and the professor were standing together in a graveyard in front of a headstone. Evelyn read the words carved on it.
Sacred to the memory of LAWRENCE MAPPLETHORPE born March 13th 1820, died April 30th 1885. A worthy academic and true friend.
Evelyn blinked a few times and closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were all back in the cottage.
“You’re…” Matthew struggled to speak.
Claire finished this question for him. “Dead? Oh, yes, that’s right, isn’t it, Professor?”
The professor spoke quietly. “Yes.”
“But that’s impossible,” Matthew said. “You’re here, as alive as I am. My friend recommended you.”
“You hadn’t seen your friend in some time, had you?” The professor’s voice became less distinct by the second and increasingly difficult to make out.
“Not for a long time, I must confess. We studied together.”
“You hadn’t seen him since those days. You merely wrote to him, and he sent you a letter back. He hasn’t seen me in years either. He had no idea I was already cold in my grave.”
“But Evelyn and I came to Leeds to consult you, and before that, I saw you on my own. ”
The professor held up his hand. “Claire is right, Matthew. I am real to you and to Miss Wainwright. I am also real to Mr. Skelton, but anyone else will simply see a shadow at best, maybe a glimmer of light, but nothing more. As for your trips to see me in Leeds…” He let his words hang in the air. “I am only here because of this book—”
“And the key, Professor,” Claire said. “Don’t forget the key.” She flipped open the box.
“Key?” Evelyn asked.
Claire rummaged under the papers and produced a small silver key. She held it up. “This key. You didn’t suppose a pile of old medical notes would warrant such secrecy, did you?”
The professor looked at her, his face crestfallen. “They were never supposed to find it,” he said. To Evelyn he seemed to be fading.
“But you must have known we would one day.”
“Who are you, Claire?” Matthew asked. “I know who you are pretending to be, but who are you really?”
Claire ignored him. She returned to the book and turned the pages. The key glittered. She opened her fingers and let it fall, where it seemed to melt and become absorbed into the fabric of the book.
“It is done,” she said.
“May God have mercy on you all.” The professor’s voice sounded far away. As Evelyn watched, he dissolved into shadow.
“Professor!” Matthew cried. “Professor!”
“He’s gone,” Claire said. “He could never succeed.”
“Claire, you’re my sister, but I feel as if I don’t know you at all.” Evelyn tried to reach for her, but she slipped out of reach.
“Oh, dear Evelyn. How little you understand. Even less than him.” She nodded toward Matthew.
“Then help me understand.” The façade had been stripped away. The woman standing there so calmly and with so much malevolence dripping from every word was not Claire. She had ceased to exist. An evil entity remained in her place.
“Very well,” the creature said. “The book is sacred to the deity known as Dakraska, the Ancient One, who can manifest in many forms, including that of the Todeswurm. Dakraska lives in the halls of the deepest chasm. He appears to few but commands many. He is the creator, the destroyer, the grand manipulator. Long ago, meddling priests tried to bind him. They locked the most mystical parts of the book. Pages that could not be seen again until the key turned up. It was hidden in that box, but now I have put it back where it belongs.”
The room began to darken. Evelyn shrank away from the stranger who had been her sister.
“None of this is real,” Matthew said, moving closer to her. “Focus your mind on that, Evelyn. None of this is real.”
Everything Evelyn had known – her entire world and life, past and present – had been called into question. And now Claire wasn’t alone. Branwell had j
oined her. They stood together, smiling at her.
The book glowed with a golden light. It quickly turned to orange and red. Images appeared to dance off the pages. Words. Pictures. Evelyn saw her likeness weaving and writhing, her face contorted.
She could barely see across the room, and it seemed different. The wind howled, rain lashed down, soaking her instantly. Matthew tried to shield her but to no avail.
Up above a solitary curlew called.
Claire’s laughter rang out, and Branwell began to change.
“Dakraska!” Claire cried.
Branwell’s skin peeled from his face. Long strips of bloody flesh, soaked by the rain, dripped down his body. His scalp cracked open, and a thick, wormlike creature emerged, its mouth unhinged, revealing an abyss of black foulness. Even through the wind, Evelyn smelled the stench of death and putrefaction.
Weeds clung to Evelyn’s legs, tried to climb up her, to drag her down into the muddy mire forming at her feet. She fought against them, ripping them off her. Matthew cried out in agony.
Dakraska discarded the last of Branwell’s body. It shriveled and flaked into wet ash. The ground absorbed it instantly, and another weed grew, winding its tendrils upward, as if seeking a new host.
The Garden of Bewitchment Page 23
