The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books)

by Marie O'Regan

  Miss Rosamond slept on sound, for all the wind blew so; and Miss Furnivall said never a word, nor looked round when the gusts shook the windows. All at once she started up to her full height, and put up one hand, as if to bid us listen.

  “I hear voices!” said she. “I hear terrible screams – I hear my father’s voice!”

  Just at that moment, my darling wakened with a sudden start: “My little girl is crying, oh, how she is crying!” and she tried to get up and go to her, but she got her feet entangled in the blanket and I caught her up; for my flesh had begun to creep at these noises, which they heard while we could catch no sound. In a minute or two the noises came, and gathered fast, and filled our ears; we, too, heard voices and screams, and no longer heard the winter’s wind that raged abroad. Mrs Stark looked at me, and I at her, but we dared not speak. Suddenly Miss Furnivall went towards the door, out into the ante-room, through the west lobby, and opened the door into the great hall. Mrs Stark followed, and I durst not be left, though my heart almost stopped beating for fear. I wrapped my darling tight in my arms, and went out with them. In the hall the screams were louder than ever; they sounded to come from the east wing – nearer and nearer – close on the other side of the locked-up doors – close behind them. Then I noticed that the great bronze chandelier seemed all alight, though the hall was dim, and that a fire was blazing in the vast hearth-place, though it gave no heat; and I shuddered up with terror, and folded my darling closer to me. But as I did so, the east door shook, and she, suddenly struggling to get free from me, cried, “Hester! I must go! My little girl is there; I hear her; she is coming! Hester, I must go!”

  I held her tight with all my strength; with a set will, I held her. If I had died, my hands would have grasped her still, I was so resolved in my mind. Miss Furnivall stood listening, and paid no regard to my darling, who had got down to the ground, and whom I, upon my knees now, was holding with both my arms clasped round her neck; she still striving and crying to get free.

  All at once, the east door gave way with a thundering crash, as if torn open in a violent passion, and there came into that broad and mysterious light the figure of a tall old man, with grey hair and gleaming eyes. He drove before him, with many a relentless gesture of abhorrence, a stern and beautiful woman, with a little child clinging to her dress.

  “Oh, Hester! Hester!” cried Miss Rosamond. “It’s the lady! The lady below the holly trees; and my little girl is with her. Hester! Hester! Let me go to her; they are drawing me to them. I feel them – I feel them. I must go!”

  Again she was almost convulsed by her efforts to get away; but I held her tighter and tighter, till I feared I should do her a hurt; but rather that than let her go towards those terrible phantoms. They passed along towards the great hall-door, where the winds howled and ravened for their prey; but before they reached that, the lady turned; and I could see that she defied the old man with a fierce and proud defiance; but then she quailed – and then she threw her arms wildly and piteously to save her child – her little child – from a blow from his uplifted crutch.

  And Miss Rosamond was torn as by a power stronger than mine, and writhed in my arms, and sobbed (for by this time the poor darling was growing faint).

  “They want me to go with them on to the Fells – they are drawing me to them. Oh, my little girl! I would come, but cruel, wicked Hester holds me very tight.” But when she saw the uplifted crutch she swooned away, and I thanked God for it. Just at this moment – when the tall old man, his hair streaming as in the blast of a furnace, was going to strike the little, shrinking child – Miss Furnivall, the old woman by my side, cried out, “Oh, Father! Father! Spare the little, innocent child!” But just then I saw – we all saw – another phantom shape itself, and grow clear out of the blue and misty light that filled the hall; we had not seen her till now, for it was another lady who stood by the old man, with a look of relentless hate and triumphant scorn. That figure was very beautiful to look upon, with a soft, white hat drawn down over the proud brows, and a red and curling lip. It was dressed in an open robe of blue satin. I had seen that figure before. It was the likeness of Miss Furnivall in her youth; and the terrible phantoms moved on, regardless of old Miss Furnivall’s wild entreaty, and the uplifted crutch fell on the right shoulder of the little child, and the younger sister looked on, stony and deadly serene. But at that moment the dim lights, and the fire that gave no heat, went out of themselves, and Miss Furnivall lay at our feet stricken down by the palsy – death-stricken.

  Yes! She was carried to her bed that night never to rise again. She lay with her face to the wall, muttering low, but muttering always: “Alas! Alas! What is done in youth can never be undone in age! What is done in youth can never be undone in age!”

  Among the Shoals Forever

  Gail Z. Martin

  “Even for Charleston, it’s too many damn ghosts to ignore.” Sorren, my patron and mentor, leaned back in his chair.

  “We’re in one of the most haunted cities in the New World,” Uncle Evann replied. “What’s a few more ‘haints’ when we’ve got so many?” He shrugged. “I never reckoned ghosts were really any of our business.”

  Sorren gave Uncle Evann a look that managed to convey both exasperation and affection. “They become our business when they’re bound here by dark magic,” Sorren said. He swirled the red liquid in his goblet, liquid I knew for certain was blood. The glow from the fireplace added colour to Sorren’s pale complexion, but could never warm his skin. He might have let out a long sigh, if he still needed to breathe. Instead, he looked from Uncle Evann to me.

  “And it becomes Dante’s business when pirates are involved,” he said with a hint of a smile that just slightly exposed the tips of his elongated eye teeth.

  He had me at “pirates”. “Yeah,” I said with a glance at Coltt, my partner in crime. “Whatever it is, count us in.”

  Sorren was the silent partner behind the curio shop in Charleston run by my Uncle Evann. Three years ago, when Coltt and I had been the only survivors of a pirate raid on our small fishing village, we’d taken our stolen ship and fled to Charleston, hoping Uncle Evann could give us sanctuary. We’d killed the pirates who had murdered our families, and had a haunted necklace to show for it, one that I knew for a fact was evil. I thought Uncle Evann would know what to do with it.

  As it turned out, Uncle Evann’s shop, Trifles and Folly, was more than it appeared. Sorren was one of a small, secret group of mortals and immortals pledged to keeping dangerous magical objects out of the hands of those who might misuse them. Sorren and Evann kept an ear open whenever objects with unusual pasts came up at auction, or were part of an estate being distributed. One way or another, Sorren made it his business to take those objects out of circulation. Evann handled the legal acquisitions. Coltt and I now took care of the rest.

  Sorren stretched out his long legs, and watched the fire burn as he spoke. “Felicity Reynolds Barre disappeared on a voyage from Bermuda to Boston almost a year ago.”

  I frowned. “Sloan Barre’s daughter?” Sloan Hampton Barre was a scion of an old Boston family with numerous business ties in every port city of the seaboard, including Charleston.

  Sorren nodded. “The same. It appears her ship was overtaken by pirates. There were no survivors found, nor bodies recovered. That would suggest that the passengers were either killed and thrown overboard—”

  “Or taken to sell in the brothels and sugar cane plantations of the Indies,” I finished, distaste clear in my tone.

  “Precisely,” Sorren replied. “Normally, I’d say there was nothing we could do except offer a prayer for the young woman’s soul. But it appears that Miss Barre was exceptional beyond just her family connections. She was given an antique cameo brooch by a young man named Islwyn Lawry, a brooch that her family believed had occult power. Lawry, it seems, convinced her that it had the power to protect the wearer, and Miss Barre never took it off.”

  My expression darkened. “Was Islwyn Lawr
y any relation to Galoshin Lawry, the gent with the fondness for black magic we went after a while back?”

  Sorren chuckled. “Islwyn is Galoshin’s son, but he had a big row with his father several years ago, and by all accounts didn’t approve of his father’s schemes or the way he used his power. Islwyn gave the cameo to Felicity when she set sail to return to Charleston, as a token of his love. It appears they had made plans to marry when she returned to Bermuda.”

  “But she never did,” I murmured. “So the cameo wasn’t as powerful as Islwyn hoped.”

  Sorren frowned. “Or perhaps it didn’t work in quite the way he expected. Barre made a special trip to Charleston, and he came to Evann several nights ago, referred by a trusted mutual friend. Need I say that Trifles and Folly is not among his usually frequented establishments? The good man believes he is being haunted by his daughter’s ghost. She comes to him in his dreams, wearing the cameo around her neck, begging for something, but she doesn’t speak.”

  “Grief makes people see strange things, even in a city as haunted as Charleston,” I replied.

  “If Barre were the only one to see the girl’s apparition, I might agree,” Sorren replied. “But there have been reports up and down the Battery of the same ghost, a young woman in a blue gown with upswept hair and a fine cameo at her throat.”

  I crossed my arms. “I’m not sure what Barre expects us to do about it. If the cameo were cursed, it’s probably at the bottom of the ocean by now. Unless it’s shown up in Uncle Evann’s shop.”

  Uncle Evann shook his head. “I’ve had no cameos brought in for quite some time,” he replied. No matter how vast the store’s inventory, Uncle Evann knew every piece. The storefront was crowded with antiques and curios from around the world, while in the back rooms, Evann and Sorren dealt with the dark magic items that found their way – legally or not – into Evann’s possession. Some of those dark items were destroyed, while Sorren passed others along to his network of secret operatives for safekeeping. Although the parlour was warm from the fire, I shivered. I’d handled several of those dark items myself, and I knew their power. One damned necklace had already tried to kill me; I had to admit I was sceptical of searching for another.

  “If she’s showing up as a ghost, that makes it pretty clear what happened to her,” Coltt said. “But the cameo is probably off the coast of Bermuda. What can we do?”

  Sorren took another sip of blood. “I believe the cameo is here, in Charleston. And I believe both the appearance of Felicity and the unusual ghostly activity are linked.” He leaned forward and met my gaze. “I have a strong feeling that we’ve got a necromancer here in the city, and I fear what we’ve seen is just the beginning.”

  The only things I like less than pirates are necromancers. Then again, maybe I should qualify that statement, since in the eyes of the Navy, Coltt and I are technically pirates. I prefer to think of us as paranormal privateers, chartered by Sorren and his murky band of relic-snatchers, helping the good guys by plundering the bad ones. I avoid the Navy because I don’t think they’d understand the distinction.

  “So who’s our necromancer?” I asked.

  Sorren shook his head. “Don’t know yet. But I’m certain whoever it is has focused his power in the Battery. That seems to be the nexus of the disturbances.”

  I let out a low whistle. “That’s one wealthy necromancer.” The Battery was a row of some of the finest houses in Charleston, so named because it fronted the harbour just behind the city’s port defences. The rainbow-hued homes, reminiscent of mansions in the Caribbean islands, had long been the preserve of the wealthiest and most prominent citizens in the city. Sorren knew how to navigate in that company, but it didn’t come naturally to country boys like Coltt and me.

  “As luck would have it,” Sorren said, with a hint of a smile indicating that luck had little to do with it, “there’s going to be a grand ball at the home of a dear friend of your Uncle Evann’s. Everyone from the Battery will be there, as well as the folks who live south of Broad Street. And so will you,” he said, looking straight at me.

  “Are you coming, too?” I asked, not sure whether Sorren could hear the uncertainty in my voice. Pirates I could handle. Old-money aristocrats I found much more frightening, on a whole different level.

  Sorren chuckled. “I’m a bit too well known in certain circles,” he said. “There will be more than one esteemed reverend of the church in attendance who might find my presence . . . unsettling.”

  “They’ll balk at a vampire and not a bloody necromancer?” Coltt broke in. “How’s that?”

  Sorren gave an eloquent shrug. “Necromancers have a pulse. I don’t. Unlike the undead, necromancers and their sort have survived for centuries hiding in plain sight, usually among the most privileged and pious.”

  “I guess I’d better dust off the company manners,” I said resignedly. Give me a good sword fight any day over a social event. Both are battles, but one is at least honest about it.

  “I’ve trained you better than that,” Sorren chided. And it was true. Under his tutelage, I had mingled among the wealthiest and most powerful men in the former colonies, with them none the wiser to the charade. And usually, while I mingled, Coltt was busy thieving in the darkened rooms upstairs.

  “The ball will keep the Battery’s residents occupied, and it’s very likely they’ll give their servants the night off, so it should be easy for Coltt to slip into the houses and look for clues to the whereabouts of our necromancer,” Sorren added.

  “And what kind of clue is that?” Coltt demanded. “Perhaps a sign that says ‘Ring bell for the necromancer’ or some such?”

  “You’re the best thief in the New World,” Sorren replied smoothly, and added, “trained by the best thief in the Old World,” with a hint of pride, tugging at his collar to indicate himself. “I have full confidence in your abilities to find our man.”

  “Just make sure this necromancer likes fancy dress balls,” Coltt said darkly. “I don’t have your strength or Dante’s magic. I’m not the man for a fight.”

  I personally knew that, when his back was against the wall, Coltt could be utterly ruthless in battle, but I also knew that the memories of those few awful times weighed more heavily on him than they did on me. Maybe it meant Coltt was a nicer person than I am. Or maybe I’d just lost so many of the people I cared about that I no longer worried about God keeping score.

  “The ball is tomorrow night,” Sorren replied. “I’ve had an associate get me the plans to as many of the great homes as he could; Coltt will no doubt find them useful. Evann’s probably already gotten his hands on the guest list and been to his sources for news. And as for you, Dante” he said, with a glance in my direction, “a haircut and a shave might be in order. I’ve taken the liberty of having a new outfit delivered to your rooms. I believe you’ll look quite acceptable in it.”

  I sighed. Sorren had taught me long ago that the best spies looked good enough to fit in and unremarkable enough not to be remembered. I feared it was my lot in life.

  The next night, Evann and I headed out. We were dressed like aristocrats, with a carriage and driver (thanks to Sorren) that rivalled the best in the city. Coltt had caught a rental coach as far as Meeting Street, where he would walk the rest of the way to attract the least notice. Evann and I intended to have our driver let us out by the main door, but someone’s coach horse had bolted, and the street in front of the mansion was a tangle of people, policemen and panicked horses, so we had our man let us out on Church Street just a block or so from the Battery, with instructions to pick us up in the same place afterwards.

  The ball was just beginning to get lively when we arrived. “Welcome, gentlemen,” said the servant who met us at the door to take our cloaks. “You’ve arrived just in time.” He dropped his voice conspiratorially. “The musicians have warmed up and the crowd is lively, but the sideboard is still full, if you hurry,” he said with a wink.

  He turned away just as I saw a button fall f
rom my cloak. I bent to retrieve it, and saw a small, intricate design at the outside corner of the stone step. It was a symbol of some sort, drawn in a yellow, chalky powder, very small, as if not to attract notice. My button fell next to it, so I couldn’t avoid seeing it, although otherwise, I would never have looked down. I stood, and, for an instant, saw a look of stark fear cross the servant’s face, until his mask of genial welcome slammed back into place. Odd, I thought, vowing to ask Sorren about it later.

  “Evann! How good of you to come!” I looked up to see Eudora Hallingsworth, the doyenne of the Battery, holding out her arms to greet Evann with a prim kiss on each cheek. Mrs Hallingsworth was descended from the families whose names matched the streets and plantations of Charleston, as close as we got in these post-colonial days to local royalty.

  “Honoured to be your guest,” Evann said, making a low bow and kissing her hand with a rakish raise of his eyebrows.

  Eudora Hallingsworth chuckled. “Really, Evann! Such a show you make,” she protested, clearly thrilled at the attention. “And who is this with you?”

  Evann turned to me with a flourish. “My nephew, Dante Morris, of the Virginia Morrises.”

  Mrs Hallingsworth smiled indulgently at me. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Your family has an illustrious reputation.”

  I smiled along with the ruse. “You’re too kind, m’lady,” I replied. Yes, my family name was Morris, and yes, I was from Virginia, but otherwise Evann had led the dear lady woefully astray. My father was a fisherman in a poor coastal village, not a planter aristocrat. But if privateering hadn’t already damned my soul, I doubted another lie or two would tip the balance.

  “You simply must try the roast duck,” Mrs Hallingsworth said, leading us into the ballroom, where musicians had already struck up a lively reel. “One of the servants will get you a cup of punch, and you can’t overlook Cook’s benne seed wafers.” Her attention turned to me with the eye of a mother.