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

by Marie O'Regan

  On shelves all around the parlour I saw small glass boxes. Most of them were filmy with dust; none looked as if they had been opened or moved in a long time. There were dozens of them: on the bookshelves, atop the side tables, on the mantle above the fireplace. I vowed to take a closer look on my way out.

  I touched the veve on the strap at my throat for luck, and moved further into the house. It was dark enough that I lit a small candle lantern that sat on a side table. With the draperies pulled tight, I wasn’t worried that I’d been seen by neighbours. The candle’s glow was comforting, and I moved deeper into the gloom.

  The next room was a library. Shelves ranged all the way to the ceiling, several feet above my head. There were hundreds of leather-bound books; not surprising for a scholar and a judge. But on every shelf were three or four of the glass boxes, and here and there small urns. I struggled to remember where I had seen urns like that before, and then I remembered. One or two such urns had come into Uncle Evann’s shop. Cremation urns. I shuddered. Somewhere in the house, I could hear the deep, regular ticking of a large clock, and it seemed to echo my pounding heart.

  I reached out with my magic. My touch was cautious, checking for magical traps. I was astounded to see the room lit as if with captured stars as every one of the glass boxes began to glow.

  I looked closer at one of the boxes on the shelf nearest me, and had to blow on it to clear away enough dust to see inside. A button from a man’s coat lay in the box and a few strands of hair. I backed up a step as my magic touched the box. A wave of anger hit me like a punch in the jaw. I had a glimpse of a man in worn and stained clothing, wearing a tattered coat with buttons like the one in the glass box. He looked like a brigand, and I was glad I hadn’t met him in a dark alley. Quickly, I turned my attention to the next box. Inside was a meerschaum pipe, stained with tobacco from long use, a sailor’s comfort. With it, also, were a few strands of hair.

  I gaped at the shelves, understanding what I had found. By holding on to a possession of each condemned man and a few strands of hair, Judge Von Dersch had been able to tap into the power of the souls bound to eternal torment in the oyster shoals. There were boxes everywhere I looked, and I was certain that if I counted them, I would find three hundred glass cases, one for every damned soul on whom Judge Von Dersch had passed sentence.

  I let my magic gently skim across the shelves. The clock’s ticking grew louder as I moved around the library, and then I saw it – a large, graceful Morbier clock in an ornate cabinet. The cabinet of the clock was gently curved, wider at the top for the clock face, slim at the top of the body, then swelling to where the pendulum hung, and wider still at the feet. The cabinet was a dark Oriental lacquer, and it was covered with carvings and symbols I did not recognize.

  I looked closer, and realized how the clock resembled the rough outlines of a human form. Even the terms for its parts, face, body, foot, made it sound human. I looked closer, then recoiled as my magic brushed against it. The clock resonated with power, a dark magic that hissed and sang at the very edge of my consciousness. I stared at it. The clock was as tall as I was, far too large to fit in Mama Nadege’s basket.

  Then I saw the pendulum. A bronze disc the size of a dinner plate swung back and forth, suspended by a long metal shaft. On the shaft were three gems: a shattered moonstone, a white opal and a garnet, all unlucky. I dared another flicker of magic and realized that the clock was not the locus of power; the stones in its pendulum were. Those I could fit in my basket.

  From somewhere nearby, I heard a woman weeping. I looked up, and saw that one of the hundreds of boxes seemed to be glowing more brightly than the others. I climbed atop a desk for a better look, and caught my breath.

  Inside was a black cameo brooch with a raised white image of the three Fates. Beside it was a lock of blonde hair. My magic touched the box, and unlike the anger and rage that had responded from the other boxes, this box spoke only of mourning and loss. In my mind’s eye, I saw an image of a young woman dressed in a fashionable gown. I felt the energy of the box surge towards me, and images overwhelmed me. A storm at sea, leaving a ship derelict in the water. Discovery by a ship of “rescuers” who turned out to be pirates, ruffians who killed the crew, looted the ship’s hold and carried off their treasures, including the young woman.

  I tried to turn my head or close my eyes as I felt the ghost’s memories forced upon me, memories of being cruelly used and badly beaten, plied with strong liquor to ensure that she offered no resistance. Then another rescue gone wrong, this time when the pirates were captured by the Navy. Dressed in a strumpet’s abandoned finery, groggy from the rum and the beatings, she had been incoherent, unable to convince the sailors that she was a victim and not one of the brigand crew. The vision ended abruptly, with the snap of a gallows trapdoor.

  I reeled back, covering my face with my hands, tears streaming down my face. There was no doubt that I had found Felicity Barre.

  I heard the whispered curses and distant threats of the spirits trapped in the boxes around me as the clock’s tick-tock rhythm seemed to grow louder with each heartbeat. The pirates’ souls shouted and mocked, swearing in the vilest terms as if I had somehow enabled their torment. Then I heard a woman’s voice as clearly as if she had bent low to whisper in my ear.

  “Stop the clock and shatter the cases, and he loses his power.”

  Which to do first? Did the clock bind the souls, or did the trapped spirits power the clock’s magic?

  I set down the lantern and looked around the room for something to use to shatter the boxes. My gaze rested on a pole that stuck out from amidst the clutter. I grabbed it and pulled, setting off a small avalanche of papers and scrolls. I jumped back, careful to move the lantern so it wouldn’t tip. The pole came free in my hand, a whaler’s harpoon. I took a deep breath and drew my pistol, holding the harpoon in my left hand.

  I fired into the face of the clock, striking it squarely in the centre pin that bound the hands to the mechanism inside. A bloodcurdling shriek filled the air, the sound of something that had never been remotely human. With my left hand, I brought the harpoon down hard on the nearest shelf, smashing the glass boxes. Again and again my harpoon raised and lowered, sweeping the boxes to the floor, or shattering them where they sat. I took particular pride when the heavy shaft of the harpoon flung Felicity’s box to the floor and it shattered, sending the cameo brooch to land near my feet.

  Spirits swirled around me, angry and shrieking as the trapped pirates gained a measure of freedom. Without the clock’s ticking, the room was otherwise still, but only for a heartbeat.

  A blast of freezing air swept through the library, sending papers flying and clouding the room with dust. The same overpowering presence I had felt at the ball when I’d passed Judge Von Dersch now filled the room, and its power reached for me, enraged. The judge might not have returned in the flesh, but some segment of his power knew that his sanctuary had been violated, and like a large, black shadow, it stretched towards me, menacing and deadly.

  I cast about with my magic for a weapon, since my pistol would do no good against this foe. I grabbed Felicity’s cameo and threw myself towards the clock, wresting the pendulum from where it hung in the shattered clock case. The shadow’s icy fingers brushed my skin, but I eluded its grip and stumbled, prising the gems free from their attachment to the pendulum. Mama Nadege’s basket was just out of reach, and the shadow was circling to come at me again from an angle that would not require crossing paths with Mama Nadege’s spirit catcher.

  The shadow lurched towards me as I lunged for the basket. My foot kicked the piles that were precariously balanced on one of the old chairs, sending them sliding in a rush towards the floor, and knocking over the candle in the lantern.

  The dry old papers caught fire quickly, and I knew that the crowded, cluttered rooms were a tinderbox. The shadow moved swiftly, and caught my ankle as I tried to scramble clear. Its touch was icy, far colder than even a vampire’s undead grip. I strug
gled to remove the lid from the sea-grass basket without dropping either the gems or Felicity’s cameo. The harpoon had fallen beside me, and my pistol was lost somewhere amid the mess.

  I kicked at the shadow, but the black tendrils held me tightly. Just a few feet away, more scattered papers caught fire, and the room was beginning to fill with smoke. I grabbed at the leg of a large, overstuffed sofa to keep the shadow from dragging me backwards, but with one hand holding on, I couldn’t manipulate the basket.

  Outside, I heard rain lash the roof. The cameo beside me flared with brilliant light, and Felicity’s ghost materialized, interposing itself between me and the deadly shadow. The air in the stuffy, smoky room began to move, gently at first, and then with the intensity of a captured windstorm. Before I had a chance to gather my thoughts, I saw a cloud of faces in the swirling air, and from the wild wind, the figures of the hanged pirates began to stream towards the shadow of the judge’s power. I reached out with my water magic, and grabbed the nearest available source of power, the rain that beat down outside the mansion. I threw a burst of power against the shadow and felt its grip loosen, just as the cloud of spirits descended on the judge, shrieking and wailing. The shadow let go of my ankle and I rolled free, twisting off the lid of the sea-grass basket and thrusting the three gems inside, then slamming the lid down again.

  I climbed to my feet, coughing and wheezing. I grabbed Felicity’s cameo in one hand and the harpoon in the other, shoving the basket under my arm. Perhaps it was already too late. Smoke filled the room, making it impossible for me to see which way led out.

  The house trembled as if shaken to its foundations. I could hear the thud of books falling from the shelves and the crash of glass as, in the other rooms, the glass spirit boxes smashed to the floor. My eyes were streaming tears from the smoke and it was growing difficult to breathe. Fire had spread to the old velvet draperies and the overstuffed furniture. Without a way out, I was sure to join the spirits I had just freed.

  A dog barked frantically. Ahead of me, just visible in the smoke, I saw the shape of a large black dog. It barked again, then turned and trotted a few feet, turning again as if to make sure I had seen it. I staggered towards the dog, who jumped up and walked a few feet further, pausing to wait until I came close enough to see it before moving further.

  The house rocked again, and I could hear the creak of old beams and the crash of plaster. Whatever I’d destroyed seemed to have been holding the whole damned house together, and the floor began to buckle and lurch beneath my feet. The insistent barking of the black dog kept me focused; drawing me through the smoke even as my lungs burned and skin began to blister from the heat.

  Stumbling and coughing, I followed the barely visible dog, and when I could not see him, I followed the sound of his barking. Finally, I reached the door I had entered by and managed to fall more than step out, still holding tight to the basket and the cameo. I let the harpoon fall, unable to see well enough to strike at an enemy.

  Rain pelted me, and I felt the sting of hail. Magic convulsed around me, and for a moment I was trapped between the crumbling house behind me and the dark wardings. The black dog stood next to me, still barking. For a moment, we were in the eye of the storm, and then there was silence. I felt as if I were suspended in midair, and then I came crashing down on to the grass, landing on one shoulder so as not to lose the precious items clutched in my white-knuckled hands.

  “You’ve done good, son.” I looked up into the wizened face of the old black man who had led me here, into the depthless eyes of Papa Legba. The black dog stood beside him, and I could have sworn it was smiling. Coltt and Evann rushed towards me, abandoning their disguises. It seemed as if everyone in Charleston had gathered, and perhaps they had. Houses on the Battery don’t collapse in a puff of smoke every day. On the edge of the crowd I caught a glimpse of a figure dressed in white, and I knew that Mama Nadege had done her part, calling on the sea loa to free whatever part of the trapped spirits’ essence was bound to the oyster shoals. In the crowd, just for a heartbeat, I thought I saw a pretty young woman in a blue dress, her hair caught back in an elegant twist. She smiled at me, and then turned, and vanished.

  “Let’s get you out of here, before there are too many questions.” It was Evann’s voice, and he and Coltt helped me to my feet. I looked around, but Papa Legba and the black dog were gone. Still dazed from the fight, I let them lead me through the back alleyways until we were far enough away to call for a carriage without attracting attention. Evann made me strip off my sooty jacket, and Coltt took the sea-grass basket, holding it tight with both hands. I slipped Felicity’s cameo into my pocket, and the carriage whisked us back to Trifles and Folly.

  Late that night, when I had gathered my wits, I returned to the alley where I’d met Hawk. He was waiting with a sad smile. “Did you find her?” he asked.

  I nodded. “You deserve part of the credit. You brought me to Mama Nadege.”

  Hawk shrugged. “Did you free the ghosts?”

  “I think so. They attacked whatever energy the judge sent to stop me, and then the whole building collapsed. Sorren told me that the judge dropped dead of a heart attack at the bench in his courtroom at the time the house fell. The pieces in the basket, and Felicity’s brooch, will go into safekeeping, somewhere no one else can use them.”

  Hawk looked at me sadly. “I guess that’s it then.”

  “You did me a good turn. You helped me free a woman’s soul, and helped me stop a powerful necromancer. Didn’t Mama tell you that you had to make things right before you could leave the alley? Maybe that counts.” I removed the veve that I’d worn around my neck, and placed it in the crossroads at the end of the alley. I blinked, and there stood Papa Legba and his dog. Papa nodded to me, and then he turned his attention to Hawk.

  “Come along, son. Best you be moving on.”

  Hawk glanced at me with a look of astonishment and gratitude, and then hurried after Papa Legba and the black dog. When I blinked again, the alley was empty except for me. The veve was gone, too. I patted the gris-gris bag that still nestled over my heart, and began to walk home. In the distance, I heard the faraway joyful bark of a large dog, and I smiled.

  Afterward

  Edith Wharton

  I

  “Oh, there is one, of course, but you’ll never know it.”

  The assertion, laughingly flung out six months earlier in a bright June garden, came back to Mary Boyne with a sharp perception of its latent significance as she stood in the December dusk, waiting for the lamps to be brought into the library.

  The words had been spoken by their friend Alida Stair, as they sat at tea on her lawn at Pangbourne, in reference to the very house of which the library in question was the central, the pivotal “feature”. Mary Boyne and her husband, in quest of a country place in one of the southern or south-western counties, had, on their arrival in England, carried their problem straight to Alida Stair, who had successfully solved it in her own case; but it was not until they had rejected, almost capriciously, several practical and judicious suggestions that she threw it out: “Well, there’s Lyng, in Dorsetshire. It belongs to Hugo’s cousins, and you can get it for a song.”

  The reasons she gave for its being obtainable on these terms – its remoteness from a station, its lack of electric light, hot-water pipes, and other vulgar necessities – were exactly those pleading in its favour with two romantic Americans perversely in search of the economic drawbacks which were associated, in their tradition, with unusual architectural felicities.

  “I should never believe I was living in an old house unless I was thoroughly uncomfortable,” Ned Boyne, the more extravagant of the two, had jocosely insisted; “the least hint of ‘convenience’ would make me think it had been bought out of an exhibition, with the pieces numbered, and set up again.” And they had proceeded to enumerate, with humorous precision, their various suspicions and exactions, refusing to believe that the house their cousin recommended was really Tudor till
they learned it had no heating system, or that the village church was literally in the grounds till she assured them of the deplorable uncertainty of the water supply.

  “It’s too uncomfortable to be true!” Edward Boyne had continued to exult as the avowal of each disadvantage was successively wrung from her; but he had cut short his rhapsody to ask, with a sudden relapse to distrust: “And the ghost? You’ve been concealing from us the fact that there is no ghost!”

  Mary, at the moment, had laughed with him, yet almost with her laugh, being possessed of several sets of independent perceptions, had noted a sudden flatness of tone in Alida’s answering hilarity.

  “Oh, Dorsetshire’s full of ghosts, you know.”

  “Yes, yes; but that won’t do. I don’t want to have to drive ten miles to see somebody else’s ghost. I want one of my own on the premises. Is there a ghost at Lyng?”

  His rejoinder had made Alida laugh again, and it was then that she had flung back tantalizingly: “Oh, there is one, of course, but you’ll never know it.”

  “Never know it?” Boyne pulled her up. “But what in the world constitutes a ghost except the fact of its being known for one?”

  “I can’t say. But that’s the story.”

  “That there’s a ghost, but that nobody knows it’s a ghost?”

  “Well – not till afterward, at any rate.”

  “Till afterward?”

  “Not till long, long afterward.”

  “But if it’s once been identified as an unearthly visitant, why hasn’t its signalement been handed down in the family? How has it managed to preserve its incognito?”