The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1)

by Carolyn Haines

  Understanding came as a bolt. I didn’t know what to say. I started the car and drove John Henry back to the candy shop. When I parked in front, I’d recovered some of my wits. “She has no cause to treat you that way.”

  “I make her life hard. The rich ladies talk down to her because of me and my mama. Her husband’s brother laid with a Negro. It isn’t done here. Or at least if it is, folks keep it quiet.”

  “Well, it’s done everywhere, and the burr under her saddle is that he got caught, and your mama has taken his name.”

  John Henry’s grin was slow, but in the end a thing of beauty. “She is on the feisty side. Mama won’t lie. Not for anyone. She said I was owed the name, and I had to take it.”

  I agreed with John Henry’s mother, in principle. But the reality was that Mobile would always be a hard town for him and his children. I parked in front of the candy shop. “I’m sorry for the way she spoke to you.”

  “Not your place to send off apologies.” He got out of the car. “Thank you kindly for the ride.”

  “Does Pretta know how Mrs. Marcum treats you?”

  He considered a moment, his gaze moving down the street. “I never told her. I don’t know what Mrs. Marcum might have said.”

  “She’s a coward. She wouldn’t say a word to Pretta. I’m willing to take that to the bank.”

  He stepped back from the car, and I headed back to Caoin House, filled with ideas for another ghost story involving the tragic Elise Whitehead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The next days passed in a blur of activity, and I could only say thanks that Uncle Brett allowed us to postpone the séance for a few days. A business complication sent my uncle to town every day. Winona handled most of the household details, which left me free to pursue my writing and secretly tutor Reginald on Caoin House and the former residents. We explored the beautiful grounds and the cemetery and begged Winona for stories about the days when Caoin House was a working plantation. As the date for the séance drew near, we laid plans for quite a spectacle.

  Reginald knew a multitude of tricks used by fake mediums, and we settled on some automatic writing, a series of knocks and thumps that had made the Fox sisters famous for their “abilities,” and Reginald’s fabricated vision of Eva Whitehead. He knew enough about her physical description and behavior now that he would be convincing. We’d agreed to leave the mystery of Robert Aultman’s death alone. Reginald shot me a curious glance when I proposed this solution, but he agreed. I had no intention of telling anyone what I’d discovered in the coroner’s report—that Robert had been a con man intending to use me to fleece my uncle. I didn’t want that information coming out at a séance.

  Friday evening had been set for the gathering. Carlton and Isabelle would stay over at Caoin House, and Uncle Brett had Saturday plans for an exploration of the wetlands that bordered part of his acreage. We’d embark from a point on Bayou Sara, exploring the exotic and wild wetlands, and eventually dock at the port in Mobile. The Tensaw River delta was a vast aquatic expanse where the Tombigbee, Alabama, and Mobile Rivers drew close together in their rush to join other waterways and pour into Mobile Bay. Locals said the area was a hunting-and-fishing paradise, though I found both activities distressful.

  Before the Civil War, the area was the last stronghold for the Choctaw tribes who refused to abandon their land as thousands of Indians were forced onto the Trail of Tears and removed to Oklahoma. Many of the Indians died during the roundup and imprisonment. Others died on the journey. It was a long and brutal trek filled with starvation, harsh conditions, and cruelty. My reading on the subject had left me with lingering sadness when I thought of how this had once been the land of an entire people who were almost eradicated in the name of Manifest Destiny, another word for thievery.

  The delta, though, often extracted its own price. It would never be owned by anyone. To prove the point, it changed with the seasons. Hunters and fishermen who went into the Tensaw Waterway sometimes didn’t come out. The rivers shifted course, and what once had been land was no longer dry. Alligators sunned silently on the banks until they lured their prey close. Uncle Brett had told me, with great glee, that an alligator could run sixty miles an hour for a short distance. I wasn’t certain I believed him, but I wasn’t going to put it to the test.

  The idea of a boat ride into this wilderness excited me. We would launch and demonstrate Uncle Brett’s latest paddleboat technology. Before the boat ride, though, we had to get through the séance.

  Reginald might not see spirits, but he had a keen eye for reading emotions from a person’s expression and posture. He had long been a student of physiognomy and quoted the famous British philosopher Sir Thomas Browne to me: “And the countenance proclaims the heart and inclinations” of a man. I wasn’t sure I agreed, but Reginald made some startling assertions that I knew to be true, all based on studying portraits and daguerreotypes of Eva. I was still desperately hunting a likeness of Elise for him. All in all, by Thursday evening, we were ready for the performance of our lives.

  After a wonderful meal prepared by Winona, we sipped cognac and chatted, finalizing our plans. Everything was prepared with the exception of an image of Elise. I’d never been able to find one in the house. I was afraid I’d arouse suspicions if I asked Uncle Brett, and I didn’t want to draw Winona into our deception. There was nothing to do but retire for the evening.

  The day had been extremely hot, and I opened the balcony doors. I sat in front of my green Corona and wrote another four pages on my latest story, “The Haunting of Millicent Dupree,” loosely based on the story of Elise Whitehead. In my version, Millicent had been pushed out the window by her fiancé, who’d discovered a terrible secret about her past. The rush of the story was like water falling off a cliff, and so caught up in my imaginary world was I that it was well past midnight before I realized it.

  I was already in my nightgown when it occurred to me that the one place I’d failed to look for images of Elise was in the attic. The attic trapped heat, and if there were any paintings of the young woman there, chances were they were completely ruined. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check.

  Hot, musty, and filled with discarded items from a multitude of households, the attic now enticed me. I’d reached a point in my story where Elise had retreated from her husband to the attic. Now, that space begged for exploration.

  Uncle Brett hadn’t wired the attic for electric light—fear of fire—but he had flashlights in the library. I tiptoed down the staircase, seeking one of the electric torches, but indistinct conversation stopped me. Uncle Brett was up and talking with someone. I couldn’t risk detection. I returned to my room and took an old lantern from the washstand.

  The third floor of the house held a wonderful ballroom, and it was here Reginald and I would set up the table for the séance. Now, though, the large, open room with the moonlight filtering through full-length windows held a touch of creepiness. My active imagination was in high gear.

  I found myself holding my breath as I tiptoed through the third floor—as if I might disturb the ghosts that slumbered in the dark corners of the ballroom. On my last trip to the ballroom, I’d been intent on finding the path to the roof. Now I took note of the enormous space. What an incredible venue for a ball. It didn’t take much to envision elegant couples floating around the room to a waltz. In my mind, the women wore the hoopskirts of the 1860s.

  A flicker of movement behind a column pulled me up short, but it was a tree branch outside the window casting a shadow. Since Reginald’s arrival, I’d seen the Confederate soldier only once, and Uncle Brett had not mentioned Eva’s ghost. The idea of a séance—where these phantoms of the dead were invited to appear and communicate—had obviously driven them away. I had no problem with that outcome. Caoin House would be a much more restful place if the dead stayed in the cemetery, where they belonged. Of course, I might lose a source of inspiration for my dark tales, but I could manage with only my imagination.

  I crossed the
ballroom and entered the narrow hallway that led to the attic stairs. When Caoin House was originally built, the attic had been used as servants’ quarters for the house slaves who were kept at the beck and call of their masters twenty-four hours a day. A system of bells and ropes, following the style of the large British estates, had been created. The bell would ring beside the servant’s bed, and he or she would hurriedly dress and rush downstairs to answer the summons.

  The attic space would have been broiling hot in summer and cold in winter. I pushed open the attic door and was greeted with a number of different scents. A lemony sachet reminded me of the magnolias that bloomed all about the grounds. There was also a hint of cherry pipe tobacco that seemed out of place. Uncle Brett didn’t smoke, but perhaps it was caught in the fabric of some of the older furniture stored beneath drop cloths.

  The partitions that had once created various bedrooms had been torn down. The attic was wide-open, stretching into darkness. In the dim moonlight, the draped furniture took on fanciful forms and almost killed my nerve to search. The magnitude of the contents was overwhelming. A covered chifforobe in the middle of the room looked like a huge man with a deformed and humped back. For a split second, he appeared to advance toward me, but yet again the oak branches dancing in the wind were at fault.

  My breath expelled on a loud sigh, and I forced myself forward to a series of trunks that lined the west wall.

  Something scuttled around the trunks. My own gasp startled me. I was tempted to give up my search, but I was far too hardheaded. I didn’t know if the Whitehead family had taken photographs, but those might have survived the heat. And they would be here. I needed to get over the heebie-jeebies and look.

  I’d come armed with a stout screwdriver, my lamp, and a book of matches. When I’d been in the attic on my way to examine the rooftop, I’d noted the dormer windows and a series of shuttered vents that allowed light and air into the room. At night, though, the moon gave little assistance.

  I lit the lantern and put it on top of a flat trunk as I began the process of opening one of the large round-topped chests. The latch was rusted, but the screwdriver gave me enough leverage to pry it open.

  Again, a citrusy scent filled the air, and I inhaled, thinking suddenly of my mother. I felt her near me, and the idea that she was watching over me brought an ease I hadn’t felt in a long time. With my mother close, no revenant would dare to tamper with me.

  The scent faded, and I returned to my task. The top of the crate was filled with elegant gloves, silk corsets, stockings, milky-white lingerie, and a lovely evening bag stitched with white pearls. These were quality clothes, still beautiful even after decades in storage. I picked up the white clutch to examine the exquisite design of a dove created by the stitched pearls. Out of curiosity I opened the bag and found a piece of paper, a list, dated April 3, 1881. The handwriting was small and tidy, as if the owner feared taking up too much space. Even in the lantern light, the cursive was easy to read. The items included were familiar to any bride—the last-minute details of lingerie, bridesmaids’ gifts, safekeeping of the rings, floral arrangements, and seating at the dinner. I’d done many of those same things for my wedding, the little decisions that should have fallen to the mother of the bride. Like Elise, I’d had no mother to handle the details, and I felt a sense of sympathy for this young bride who’d attended to everything herself.

  I put the list back in the purse and tucked it away. My fingers found the edge of another document. Lifting out the corset, stockings, and gloves, I discovered a yellowed envelope with Elise’s name scrawled across it in fading black ink. When I picked it up, I knew, by the weight and feel, that it contained a daguerreotype. Since I assumed the wedding list and finery belonged to Elise, I was hopeful this might be a likeness of her.

  Before I could open the envelope, a breeze snuffed out the lantern. The hot and humid air grew charged, and the hair at the nape of my neck prickled in warning. The attic had no means for the wind to enter, yet it had. The heat of the day had accumulated in the area, and sweat slid down my spine and covered my forehead. Someone, or something, had blown out my light.

  I found myself in the deep gloom, aware I was no longer alone. Scarier than a ghost was the idea that an intruder shared the attic with me. Someone alive or someone dead. I couldn’t say which I feared more.

  “Raissa.”

  My name floated toward me, the genderless voice loaded with melancholy. I whipped my head in both directions. I couldn’t discern where the speaker stood, but he, or she, was near. My eyes gave me nothing. As far as I could tell, the room was empty.

  “Eli?” I asked.

  A picture leaning against the wall fell forward, the glass shattering into a hundred pieces. The room dimmed further, as if some entity inhaled the feeble light from the vents. The impossible breeze kicked up, fluttering the cloths draped over the furniture, creating a flapping noise that reminded me of a dying bird’s wings beating the ground.

  Something dark and very quick darted behind a tall sideboard. It moved so fast I doubted I’d actually seen it. In the thickening gloom, it could have been a trick of the shadows.

  Before I could think or move, something scuttled under the furniture and along the floor and struck my bare foot. I picked up a sterling-silver baby brush. Unless someone had shoved it at me, it had moved across the floor on its own. My fingers fumbled as I traced lettering engraved on the back, but I couldn’t read in the dim room. An ornate cherub design embellished the handle, and the soft bristles spoke of luxury and expense. This brush might have belonged to baby Elise. Maybe she was trying to contact me.

  “Who is with me?” I asked, hoping my disquiet didn’t register in my voice.

  “Get out!”

  My ears rang with the volume of the shout, though I knew no one else in the house could have heard it. I reeled back, putting my hands over my ears to block further pain.

  The quick figure I’d seen earlier darted closer, hiding behind a sofa. The creature was humped, it’s body twisted in a way that no bones should ever form.

  “Get out before you die.” The voice was raspy, old, something ancient and aggrieved. This was not the handsome soldier I’d watched on the lawn. This entity came from darkness and relished the shadows. It hid by deliberate design.

  “Who are you?” I asked again.

  The trunk lid slammed shut with such force that I couldn’t stop myself from falling back. I gripped the brush and the envelope I’d pulled from the trunk. If I could move, I’d willingly retreat from the attic. The entity harbored here meant to make me leave, one way or the other, and by my own volition seemed the superior choice.

  “I’m going.” I spoke calmly.

  At the New Orleans séance, Madam had spoken briefly of powerful negative spirits, how they were dangerous, poisonous. Once incarnate, they could exert tremendous influence. Contact could offer them a portal to our world, and I hoped my visit to the attic had not provided that opportunity. The thought that this creature, this angry spirit, might follow me down the stairs and to the rest of the house made me physically sick. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was this creature that Robert had encountered in the attic. I wanted to ask if it had pushed him from the roof, but I dared not speak with it again.

  A strange clacking came from beneath a shrouded piece of furniture, a divan or possibly a dainty fainting sofa. I could see only the clawed feet, which had the talons of an eagle. I’d never liked furniture with legs that ended in claws, and this piece sounded alive.

  I took a step toward the door, and the clacking advanced under the furniture. The menacing sound inched toward me. When I stepped to the right, it followed. I backed up, and it drew closer, hiding just at the edge of the cloth and out of sight.

  Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack. The noise was relentless. Whatever it was seemed determined to burst out from under the drop cloth and find me. The clack-clack reminded me of wooden jaws snapping together, wooden teeth seeking tender flesh. I wasn’t pron
e to such dark fancies, and I had no idea where those images came from, but they were frightening.

  “Stay away,” I said, unable to raise my voice above a whisper. “I’m leaving.”

  “Give it back.”

  I had no doubt what the creature spoke of. It demanded that I return the envelope. My fingers itched to pull it from my pocket and drop it to the floor, but I wouldn’t. This was a clue. It had to be important. This was the thing that had brought this dark spirit out in an attempt to take it from me. The attic had been a hot, calm place until I’d found the envelope.

  I forced my body to turn toward the door and take steps. It was almost as if a physical power held me in place, unyielding. I fought to free myself, to gain the stairs and the use of my voice to scream. The best I could accomplish was to take several steps toward the door.

  The clack-clack-clack followed just out of sight. At last the mechanism broke free of the drop cloth and showed itself. The visage of a horrid monkey, mouth wide, sharpened teeth, eyes bulging, came out from under the sofa. It danced upright, tail spinning. The joints were mobile, like a marionette, and I recognized it as a dancing jigger, which was normally manipulated with a wooden stick in the back. The stick was there, but no hand held it. The vile toy dated from the Victorian era, but I couldn’t believe it once had been the plaything of a child.

  It came toward me on buckling legs, upright though it shouldn’t be possible. And then I saw the grisly arm that darted from beneath the sofa. It reached for the stick that controlled the toy, but it didn’t touch it. Filthy and emaciated, the arm belonged to a child.

  My scream lodged in my throat. It refused to come out, to release, to serve as a cry for help to those on the lower floors of Caoin House. I thought my throat would explode.

  The door of the attic opened, and a tall form with broad shoulders stood at the threshold. “Raissa, what are you doing here in the dark?” Reginald asked. “I thought I heard a struggle up here.”