Autumn

by Lisa Ann Brown

  Arabel glanced at her reflection in the looking glass on the dresser and was satisfied with her appearance. She brushed her long black hair and then left it to fall loose in a shimmering cascade down her back. She wrapped the red stones around her wrist and tied them there for protection.

  Arabel made her way down to the lobby, fixing a bright, friendly smile upon her face. Folks responded better when you smiled at them, she thought to herself, and she needed them to open up. There was no time to waste politely engaging in small talk, she needed to get to the deeper conversations as soon as possible.

  In the lobby, the proprietor haggled with a large, very loud group of traveling salesmen. From what Arabel could discern, the group wanted a discount on their rooms, due to the sheer volume of their party, and the proprietor was not inclined to grant them this concession. Arabel glanced around the lobby at the other occupants. Her eyes were drawn momentarily to a multi-tasking couple with three small, energetic children, a boorish looking man in a top hat and an elderly woman seemingly half-asleep in a wingback chair, drowsy from the heat, no doubt.

  Sitting over by the west side of the double sided fireplace, a lone girl perched on a bench seat with her eyes tightly closed. Arabel drew in a breath sharply as she surveyed the girl. She was an ethereal slip of a figure, paler than pale, with curly, white blonde hair and a diminutive frame. Her crimson dress served to heighten the effect of her bloodless skin and her eyes, when she opened them, and stared directly back at Arabel, were pink.

  Arabel realized with a start that the young woman was an albino, and that her bold stare was rude. Arabel glanced away immediately, despite the beauty of the girl’s otherworldly appeal.

  The lobby doors burst open and a brightly dressed, large woman in a yellow patterned caftan and an elaborately bejewelled and feathered headdress, entered the room. Behind the woman, an entourage of six strapping young men followed, each laden down with boxes and bags, presumably her belongings. The young men were Gypsies, and Arabel peered at the large woman, wondering if she, as well, were one of them.

  The large woman spotted the albino girl. She clapped her hands together, as if signalling a stray dog.

  “Francesca!” she barked. “Come here, immediately!” and Arabel was shocked when the blonde girl leapt to her feet and obligingly approached the formidable woman in the quickest of manners. The large woman embraced the girl and the girl appeared to respond with slightly less enthusiasm.

  The proprietor broke away from the group of salesmen, who were now surveying the odd newcomers with relish and a not-so-subtle approval for the blonde girl, their immediate battle for price reductions swallowed up by their interest of the lobby proceedings.

  “Madame de Lorimar!” the proprietor exclaimed with a relieved sort of false cheer to his voice as he moved toward the woman. “Welcome back!”

  Madame de Lorimar, the large woman, peered down at the slight man with a condescending glance.

  “Our rooms, I take it, are ready? And the games-room for the engagement tonight?” she queried, and her voice was a deep growl of both practiced seduction and imperious command.

  “All is ready, Madame; I will show you personally,” the proprietor replied, graciously taking the arm of Madame de Lorimar. They set off down the hallway, the albino girl following behind, and the strapping young Gypsies following after.

  Arabel was more than intrigued. What was going on? Who were these odd strangers?

  Arabel decided to investigate further and she made her way to the doorway leading to the second floor, keeping a good distance between the flamboyant party and herself. At the foot of the stairs, Arabel paused. Madame de Lorimar’s deep voice easily carried down below, but Arabel could not make out her words. Arabel stepped onto the stairway just as someone grabbed her arm.

  Arabel turned to see the person holding her arm and found herself staring into the expressive brown eyes she had longed so much to view, the almond eyes of Eli.

  “Eli!” Arabel exclaimed, shock and pleasure coursing through her. “What are you doing here?”

  Eli grinned. “I couldn’t very well let you have all the fun now, could I?” he responded cheekily, running his fingers lightly up Arabel’s arm before bringing her hand to his lips for a soft kiss.

  The colours burst through Arabel’s eyes - the pink, the red, and the pulsing blue and green stripes. Arabel’s face suffused with colour and it felt as though her very skin would combust with sensation. Eli kept hold of her hand as she smiled back.

  “I was just going upstairs,” she said.

  “Then let’s continue,” he said.

  They held hands as they climbed the stairs and Arabel could not wipe the smile from her face. She was filled with the urge to laugh and she squeezed Eli’s hand tightly in unexpected pleasure.

  “How did you manage to get away?” she asked.

  “I finished up today and asked for tomorrow off. Seeing as it was fine by the stable master, here I am, ready to do what next needs to be done,” Eli replied easily.

  Ahead of them, the bustle of Madame de Lorimar’s party could be heard. An open door lent itself to a few measly scraps of conversation. Arabel strained to listen but conceded defeat as the door decisively swung shut. Arabel turned toward Eli.

  “Have you gotten a room yet?” she asked and he shook his head.

  “No, I saw you straight-away. I haven’t seen the proprietor. “

  “He’s in there,” Arabel said, pointing to the closed door. “I was going to eavesdrop, but you came along to distract me.”

  “A welcome distraction, I hope,” Eli quipped and Arabel laughed.

  “Of course,” she replied as the door opened again and the proprietor scuttled out.

  “Sir!” Eli said, approaching him.

  The proprietor swung around and peered at Eli. “Can I help you, young man?” he asked.

  Eli was about to respond when the young albino girl, Francesca, popped her head out of the room. She spotted Eli immediately, and her pink eyes lit up with unbridled delight.

  “Eli!” she squealed somewhat breathlessly, before hurtling toward him and launching herself heartily into his arms.

  Arabel watched in dismay as Francesca hugged Eli tightly and kissed his cheeks with a fervour that made her want to wrench the two of them immediately apart, perhaps forever.

  “What are you doing here?” Francesca asked, her voice a light, melodious sound.

  The girl was slightly younger than she’d appeared from across the room and infinitely more beautiful. Arabel found herself reeling from the unexpected shock of jealousy, an emotion she’d had yet to experience in its full, ugly, green expression. Arabel clamped down upon the feeling, plastering a polite smile to her face.

  “I’m here with my-”, Eli paused, glancing at Arabel briefly, before rephrasing his response. “Francesca, this is Arabel. Arabel, Francesca,” Eli finally said, looking oddly discomfited.

  Francesca offered a dainty white hand to Arabel. “Pleased, I’m sure,” she said, glancing for barely a second at Arabel before turning her pale charms back to Eli.

  “What are you doing here?” Eli asked Francesca.

  “Why, we’re here for the séance, of course. Mama is leading it tonight – you’ll have to come!” Francesca entreated prettily. “And you, of course, as well,” she added to Arabel, almost as an afterthought.

  “The séance?” Eli repeated. “And whom are you trying to contact this time?” he asked.

  “The two dead girls,” Francesca answered hastily, as Madame de Lorimar’s imperious voice was heard from within the belly of the room, calling her daughter to her side.

  “I have to see Mama,” Francesca apologized, turning away, “but do come! Tonight, in the old games-room, at seven, sharp!”

  Francesca kissed Eli enthusiastically on both cheeks again, and then danced away, as if clutching a secret merriment to her young and beautiful heart.

  Under any other circumstance, Arabel was quite certain she woul
d like Francesca de Lorimar, but there was no other circumstance, and so like her she did not.

  Raising the Dead

  The séance was held in a large room off of the third floor balcony. An eerie space to begin with, the room easily lent itself to the occasion of dark ritual and necromancy as it came complete with heavy blood-red burgundy velvet draperies, plush, noise-concealing rugs in muted rusts and blacks, dark wood panelling, and old faded wallpaper featuring bleeding red roses. Adorning the walls were numerous gruesome hunting paintings, in oils, of dead prey enclosed within dark, sombre wood frames.

  Apparently the games-room of the previous owner, and still called by that name, the room was empty of almost everything but the paintings and the draperies, giving it the profoundly desolate air of the long dead past. To Arabel’s keen senses, it fairly vibrated with stale indifference and old cruelty. She wondered why this room had been chosen over all of the restored rooms at the inn and concluded that the Gypsy woman, Madame de Lorimar, probably liked the rundown decay for the atmosphere it would provide to her séance.

  A grand, impossibly polished, circular mahogany table dominated the room. Thirteen straight- backed mahogany chairs with dark red cushions surrounded the table. Candles glowed from wall wickets and covered the shiny surface of the table, rendering the room almost as bright as daybreak. The candles were warmly fragranced with a fresh yet cosy cedar scent, which offset the austerity of the room and Arabel breathed in their scent deeply.

  Arabel sat beside Eli around the side of the table closest to the exit door. Next to Arabel was a thin, finely dressed woman holding a dainty blue hanky to her face, periodically sniffling, her eyes rimmed red and her shoulders hunched slightly forward. Arabel could feel the pain the woman was enduring and she longed to comfort her. There was something familiar about the woman, but Arabel could not immediately place her.

  Directly across from Eli sat Francesca, her pale eyes closed tightly, her lips moving in an inaudible chant. Her fingers repetitively worked a set of white beads or stones, but Arabel could not see them clearly enough to identify them with any sort of accuracy.

  Around the table gathered seven women, including Arabel and Francesca, and five men, including Eli and Mr. Hill, the obsequious proprietor, bringing their numbers to twelve. No one else at the table was known to Arabel and the room was silent of all conversation. Somewhere in the inn, a clock chimed the hour, seven bells. The bongs sounded heavily within the room; it was as if no one dared to breathe. The last bell rang out and the welcome sounds of footsteps upon the landing were heard.

  On cue, Madame de Lorimar appeared at the door, dressed in her brightest séance finery – a voluminous caftan of elaborate proportions in canary yellow silk and a bright fuchsia silk headdress with various coloured floral adornments. Following discreetly behind Madame de Lorimar, one of her male Gypsy minions carried into the room and placed on the shiny table, with reverent care, a heavy, milky-white crystal ball wrapped in indigo satin.

  Arabel noticed that Francesca’s eyes popped open the second that the crystal ball was set upon the table and uncovered from its indigo satin cover. Arabel watched in reluctant fascination as Francesca stared at the crystal, her lips continuing their silent chant, her fingers moving over the white stones. Arabel began to wonder if Francesca was perhaps possessed when Madame de Lorimar began to extinguish many of the candles in the room and the girl stopped chanting.

  Soon the room was pitched into a gloomy semi-darkness, with one lone candle flame to hold out against the inky blackness of the encroaching night. Madame de Lorimar moved into position beside her daughter, closing in and completing the circle of thirteen at the large mahogany table. Shadows flickered as the candle danced in an invisible breeze.

  Next to Arabel, Eli observed the proceedings warily. He’d never been to one of Madame de Lorimar’s séance’s before, but he knew that Francesca was the true medium, it would be she who would contact the dead girls, but her mother would lead ‘the ceremony’.

  “Spirits, we are pleased to invoke you!” Madame de Lorimar intoned, her voice husky, as if entreating a reluctant lover or stubborn child to obey her. “Join us, spirits, let us speak to you and hear your response! Your loved ones have gathered, they are here to seek the truth – do not disappoint us! We beseech you to appear now, Alice-May Marpole and Klara Edna Baker!”

  Madame de Lorimar briskly clapped her hands thrice in a quick succession.

  Francesca stood up suddenly and moved her small, pale hands overtop the crystal ball. Her eyes were shut once more and her hands swirled over the smooth surface quickly, as if building to some musical crescendo. Madame de Lorimar had shut her eyes now as well, and when Arabel glanced around, she observed that everyone but she and Eli had also closed their eyes. Eli nodded to her, and Arabel understood he was going to emulate the others, so she followed suit.

  Arabel shut her eyes and was assaulted immediately by the harsh, vibrant colours – they seemed angry, full of hostile aggression - dark black purples and harsh, grey muted yellows. A low keening sound penetrated from within the colours, as if they were moaning in pain, trapped in an evil fog of dark submission. A pressure was building in Arabel’s chest; she could feel a scream begging for release from the back of her throat but she didn’t know why. Her fingers tightened in Eli’s hand.

  Francesca began to speak but she was no longer Francesca.

  “Sister, I beg of you, leave this place,” she uttered softly, and her tone was heavy with sorrow; none of Francesca’s bright, eager, girlish manner remained. Arabel couldn’t resist opening her eyes to stare at the young girl who had magically transformed into someone else. Francesca’s eyes were open now as well, but they were blank, staring at some other vista, some other place, through some other soul’s perspective.

  “I beg you, sister, leave and the dark will not find you.”

  A loud sob burst from the woman clutching the blue hanky.

  “Klara! Is that you?” she sobbed out and Arabel realized where she had recognized the woman from, this was Klara’s grieving sister.

  Francesca’s hands swirled over the crystal globe at a rapid pace while she channelled the spirit of Klara.

  “He will find you if you stay, and I do not want you to suffer further, dear one.”

  Klara’s sister’s sobs increased in volume, her eyes were open and she stared at Francesca in a mixture of sorrow and anger.

  “Who did this to you?” she demanded.

  Francesca remained silent. The woman looked ready to snap.

  “Who did this to you?” she repeated, her voice taking on the not-so-subtle edge of hysteria.

  “I am gone and far away. Do not trouble yourself, but leave, leave this place and save yourself.”

  Francesca suddenly pitched forward toward the table, but was caught immediately by her mother’s large hands, and placed gently back against the chair, where she rested and became herself again as the spirit of Klara departed. Her mother resumed the ceremony.

  “Thank you Klara, for heeding our summons!” Madame de Lorimar spoke huskily in the gloomy darkness. “Alice-May, are you near? Your loved ones have assembled here, they must speak with you, show yourself, spirit!” She clapped her hands three times, as she had earlier in the night, and Francesca righted herself in her chair, and her hands moved over the crystal ball once more.

  Arabel thought she saw something moving, forming, by Francesca’s head, but she blinked twice, and the image and sensation were gone. Eli sighed deeply beside her and Arabel could feel how tense he was, how tense the entire room was. It was as if no one could breathe or dared to try, and the pressure of the sorrowful expectation was hard to bear.

  Only Francesca seemed oblivious to the energetic charge. She seemed ensconced within her own world; her hands moved quickly over her crystal ball, her lips forming inaudible words and her back was held impeccably straight as she stood. The only relations to Alice-May that had been found, her older brother Michael Turner, and his wife
Ellie, sat stiffly together, their hands clenched in one another’s, their serious faces pale and drawn, their eyes closed tightly.

  “Why? Why have you summoned me? Am I to have no peace, ever?” Francesca whispered.

  Michael pushed back from the table noisily, his eyes snapping open. “Alice-May? Honey, is that you?”

  “I was known as she once, now I have no name,” Francesca answered softly.

  “Alice-May! Oh honey, we miss you so much!” Michael’s voice broke on the last word, as he began to sob. Ellie stood up to embrace him, and they clutched each other as he cried.

  “He is dead now, that killed me,” Francesca pronounced, and her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “What’s that, honey?” Michael managed. “The man who – did this – to you, is dead? Who was he?”

  “He used his body to betray me and now he, who loved me, lies in water, face down, never to breathe again.”

  “Who, Alice-May? Who are you talking about, honey?” Ellie asked.

  “He used him to reach me, and now one is dead and another lives to kill again. I am sorry, dear brother, I am so very sorry.”

  Francesca swayed slightly, and again her mother was there to catch her and gently place her back down in her chair. A Gypsy servant placed the indigo satin cover overtop the crystal ball and began to light candles in the wickets on the walls, signalling the end of the séance.

  Arabel was surprised at the brevity of the proceedings. Michael and Ellie Turner stood, stunned, unwilling for the contact with their dead loved one to be broken so quickly.

  Madame de Lorimar stood and held her arms open wide, embracing the room.

  “Thank you spirits, for granting us access to the other dimensions, we are pleased to connect with you!”

  With a deep bow, Madame de Lorimar concluded the ceremony, just as above Francesca’s head, Arabel saw the grey swirling energy forming, and the man with the blank grey eyes, staring. Arabel clutched at Eli, and he turned to her, and saw the figure forming at the same time.