Dark Season: The Complete Box Set

by Amy Cross

  "You look quite pale," Edward says. "Are you sure you're alright?"

  "I'm fine," I say. I know that my demeanor is not convincing, but I also know that Edward will not push me too much. As long as I say that I'm happy, that will be enough for him.

  "Perhaps you're pregnant," he continues. "We'll have to get you checked by Doctor Lewis when we get home."

  "We shall indeed," I say, smiling, although I know that there is little chance that I'm pregnant. I am simply fearful of this house, and dreading the prospect of spending the night here.

  "Come," says Edward, and I rise from the chair and follow him toward the door. "Look at that," Edward says, pausing next to a small painting of a rather ugly young woman. "Dunstable has such awful taste in art." Edward takes the painting, removes it from the wall and hides it behind a curtain. "There," he says, smiling. "Much better."

  "Do you think your uncle is really gone for good?" I ask as Edward and I head upstairs.

  "Who knows?" Edward replies. "I certainly hope so."

  We enter the bedroom to find that Margaret has just finished laying out our bed for the night. Having been married for a relatively short period of time, Edward and I still sleep in the same bed, an arrangement that I like very much. I fear the day when his passion cools and we move to separate rooms, although as his wife I shall of course have to be accepting. For now, though, Edward and I are very intimate and spend much time in one another's company. Too much time, perhaps.

  "Good night, Sir," Margaret says as she bows and leaves the room. "Madame."

  Once Edward and I are alone, we retire to bed and the candles are swiftly blown out. There's a pause, before Edward rolls over and starts to get on top of me. I open my legs and feel him enter me, and for several minutes he exerts himself until finally he finishes with a gasp. He rolls off me and says nothing, and I remain on my back so that there's a better chance of becoming pregnant. Edward hopes - we hope - that sooner or later this little ritual will lead to a birth, but there's something about the whole endeavor that strikes me as being somewhat futile.

  While Edward falls asleep easily, no doubt concerned to be at full strength for the day ahead tomorrow, I find myself staring at the dark room and at the shadows that surround us. After a while, I find myself feeling rather foolish. This is, after all, only a house. It is a building, not a person, and it can no more have a personality than can a hat-stand or a chair. Once again, I have allowed my womanly qualities to become quite fevered. I should try to be calmer, and to retain a greater sense of reason. As these thoughts of self-improvement calm my nerves, I find myself falling asleep.

  I dream of the house again. This time, I'm outside in the garden and it's a nice, bright day. For a moment, I am able to relax; but then Sophie appears, beseeching me to turn and run. I pause, and then Patrick arrives. He chases after Sophie as she runs into the forest, and for some reason I run after them. I'm filled with the belief that I can in some way help Sophie, although in truth there is nothing I can do to stop Patrick. He is like a force of nature, almost like a huge dog or some other kind of slobbering animal. If he could speak, I'm sure he would roar. And as the dream continues, I find myself desperately trying to keep up with the both of them as they run and run and run and then we all reach the ballroom and -

  I awaken suddenly, quite breathless. The room is still and dark and quiet, but I feel unsettled. Turning, I see that Edward remains fast asleep. From his slow breathing, I am quite sure that nothing is the matter with him. He is completely oblivious to anything else that might be happening. I am sure that an entire war could be fought outside, and Edward wouldn't even notice.

  I turn to look at the window. The night is still dark outside, and the moon is high. There are drops of water on the glass, as if it has rained briefly. Suddenly I realize that I'm sweating. I put a hand to my brow and find that I'm extremely warm. It must be from the exertion of running in the dream. I pause, thankful for the silence around me.

  And then I hear something.

  Somewhere off in the house, in the corridor outside our bedroom, something is moving. At first I can't make out what it is, and then as it gets closer I try to persuade myself that it is one of the servants, but from the way the footfall moves along the corridor, I can instinctively tell that this is not a servant at all. It sounds as if someone very large is walking slowly through the house, dragging a large bag of heavy pebbles. As I continue to listen, I realize that the noise is getting closer and closer to the bedroom door, as if some terrible creature is approaching the room. My gaze fixes on the door handle, and I almost expect it to slowly start to turn at any moment.

  "This is ridiculous," I say quietly, under my breath. And it's true: I simply must be imagining everything that is happening. I am allowing myself to be drawn into the most insane fantasy, and now my mind is starting to betray me. How strange it is, that the human mind can be pushed to destruction simply by a few creaks and shadows in the dead of night. Yet the sound of movement seems very real to me as it suddenly stops right outside the bedroom door. There is a pause, and then it starts again and soon I realize that it is getting further away. It is as if this nightmarish visitor has come to our door, paused, and then decided to keep moving.

  My first instinct is to scream, or to otherwise wake Edward. But to do so would be to fall into the behavior of a weak woman. I want to be stronger, and I want to confront my fears. The truth is that there is almost certainly no-one outside in the corridor. This is all taking place in my head. If I tell Edward about the noises that I have heard, he will begin to doubt my sanity, and there is a danger that one day he will decide that I can only be saved by having me placed in an asylum. My own mother ended up in such a place, after my father deemed her to be insane. The truth is, my mother lost her mind and descended into lunacy. I have long feared that I might inherit her madness, and these noises I am hearing might be the first symptoms that I am indeed following in my mother's footsteps.

  I will not succumb.

  I will not become insane like my mother.

  I will face my fear.

  Slowly, I climb out of bed. Careful not to wake Edward, I creep to the door. Although I am filled with fear, it is this very fear that I am determined to conquer. If I am destined to spend much of my life in this house from now on, I simply cannot do so in the grip of an irrational terror. I must confront head on whatever spirit is out in the corridor. If I do not, I risk a lifetime of mental frailty and horror. I will not be a weak, timid little woman; nor shall I be a lunatic like my mother.

  I carefully open the bedroom door and step out into the corridor.

  Chapter Three

  The corridor is dark, quiet and empty. There is no-one here, nor is there any sign that there ever was. Stepping out and pulling the door shut, I look first in one direction, and then the other. Although I am quite sure that I have been imagining a great deal lately, I nevertheless believe that something came along this corridor and caused my fright. Perhaps it was something as innocent as a mouse, dragging some prize from the kitchen, but I must find out for certain. I cannot allow myself to live in fear of ghosts and goblins. The truth is often basic and simple, but it can be the foundation upon which an excited mind builds unseemly fantasies. I must get to this truth and see it for what it really is. I simply cannot allow my fancies to persist.

  Ghosts and goblins and nightmares are not real. I keep telling myself that: Such things are not real.

  I walk along the corridor, hoping to come across whatever creature caused me to wake up. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately), there is still no sign of anything having passed this way. Feeling that I should perhaps return to the bedroom, I nevertheless force myself to keep looking. After all, if I am to break my fear of this house, I must do so absolutely and without caution. If I am brave, I can have this fear beaten by the morning, and I shall then be able to enjoy the house as it was meant to be enjoyed. A thousand times a second, my fear urges me to go back; but I simply cannot be a coward.
I am as brave as any man, and I shall prove it.

  Reaching another corridor, I find a set of stairs leading down to the ground floor. This must be how the servants ascend and descend. What a world there is, hidden away in the depths of our houses. Perhaps the noise I heard was a servant after all; I have no idea what they would be doing awake at such an ungodly hour, but one must never try to second guess the minds of inferior people. Taking a deep breath, I cautiously start to walk down the stairs, convinced that at any moment I might run into Lively, Margaret or one of the others who are traveling with us. It must be one of them; it simply must. Yet the house seems curiously still, as if the air has not been disturbed recently. As if I am the only living creature out of bed.

  Reaching the ground floor, I find myself in a dark corridor illuminated only by the light of the moon as it streams in through a window at one end.

  Suddenly I hear a noise in a nearby room. This time there can be no doubt: I'm not alone down here. It's as if someone is shuffling about, moving slowly through the darkness. My first instinct is to turn and run, but I must fight this desire. I step toward the next room. Although I confess that I am scared, I feel that I must confront my fear, and although it would probably be wise to go and fetch Edward or Lively, I do not want to be one of those awful women who goes running to a man every time she is slightly upset. No, if this is a ghost or a ghoul then I shall confront it, and I shall look it in the eyes, and I shall make it see that it cannot scare me.

  The next room, though, is empty. I almost feel disappointed, having built myself up to confront this phantom. I must admit, there is a part of me that expects Sophie and Patrick to come running into the scene at any moment. But this is not a dream: I can feel the cold against my skin, and I distinctly recall waking up. This is real, and I must ensure that I confront the intruder. And if he - or it - will not come willingly to me, then I must call it into the open.

  "Hello?" I call out, hoping to encourage this cowardly phantom to show its face. "If you're there, you must reveal yourself."

  Silence.

  And then, after a short pause, I hear movement off in another room. Hurrying along, I find that the next room is empty, as is the next. Am I doomed to spend the entire night chasing, but never seeing, a phantom? If so, I shall feel a little let down, although I feel that even the act of seeking out the creature is itself helping to make me feel stronger and braver.

  I walk through to the next room and find myself in the entrance hallway, next to the main stairs. It's darker in here, because the moon is on the other side of the house and therefore the only light is coming from a single candle that has been left flickering. Edward always likes one light to be left on in the house, even if it might seem to be a fire hazard. I walk over to the candle, drawn to the light. Perhaps the noises I have been following have been imagined after all, and there really are no creatures stalking the corridors of the house. Staring at the flame, I am a little relieved: it seems to be a friend, a kindred spirit in all the darkness and gloom.

  Suddenly there is a noise behind me. I turn, but I see nothing. Still, I hear something, dropping down the stairs. Hurrying over, I see a single black pebble rolling down the steps one by one, stopping at my feet. I kneel down and pick it up, but immediately drop it again when I find that it is wet. Looking at my hand, I see a dark stain, and by the time I get back over to the candle I have already guessed that my hand is covered in blood.

  Indeed, it is.

  Another small black stone, covered in blood just like the last one. What does this mean? I did not mention the first stone to anyone, not even to Edward, but now I fear that this is becoming a pattern. What kind of madman is responsible for these objects, and whose blood is this?

  I walk back over to the stone. It is small, about the size of a peach stone, and it is as black as night. Yet it did not simply materialize in the house of its own accord. It fell down the stairs, which means that someone must have been at the top to drop it. There is no-one there now, but quite clearly the phantom I have been following is far more than just an apparition. Kneeling, I pick up the pebble once again. It is strange indeed to find such a thing, stranger still that it is covered in blood.

  Is someone trying to drive me to the brink of madness?

  "What are you doing, Evangeline?" calls out a voice. I look up to find Edward is standing at the top of the stairs. He looks utterly surprised to see me down here, as well he might: it is not usual for a lady to be found wandering alone in a house at such an hour. Then again, it is not usual for strange noises to disturb the silence, or for bloodied stones to be found resting on the floor. There is much that is happening in this house that is not usual.

  "I heard a noise," I say, preferring not to bother Edward with the details. He knows about my mother's descent into madness, and I do not want to give him cause to consider whether I might be succumbing to the same fate.

  "And you came down alone?" he asks, sounding shocked. He hurries down to me. "Where's Lively? You should have woken me if you were concerned about something."

  "No," I say, "it's quite alright. I just thought I heard a noise, and..." I pause. "I thought perhaps it was your uncle, returning from wherever he has been. But there's no-one here. No-one at all."

  Edward looks down at my hand. "What's that?" he asks.

  "Nothing," I say, but Edward is too quick and plucks the pebble from my hand.

  "A rock?" he says, sounding a little contemptuous, but then he sees that it is bloodied. "Is this your blood, Evangeline?"

  "It is not," I reply. "The blood was there when I found it."

  Edward stares at me. It pains me to see the expression on his face, but it is clear that he is concerned about my sanity. "You should rest," he says finally. "It has been a long day, and you have seemed strained of late."

  I nod. "I'm sorry to have worried you," I say. I feel stupid. I got out of bed, determined to be brave and strong, yet here I am, reduced once again to the status of a weak and feeble woman. It is as if, in my attempt to prove myself sane, I have done quite the opposite. "I felt sure I heard someone."

  Edward walks over to the drawing room and stares into the darkness. "There's no-one here now," he says.

  "I know," I say, feeling utterly deflated. "You're right. I should go to bed."

  Edward turns back to me, but then something in the drawing room seems to catch his eye. "Did you do this?" he asks.

  I pause. "What?" I ask, hurrying over to join him. Entering the room, I turn and see nothing but a portrait hanging on the wall. "What's wrong?" I say.

  "I took this down," Edward replies, sounding a little angry. "Don't you remember? It's that horrible painting that Dunstable like so much."

  "Of course," I say, noting that the painting has indeed been re-hung after Edward removed it earlier and tucked it behind the curtain. "I suppose Lively must have put it back."

  "I suppose so," Edward says. "I shall have to have a word with him." He removes the painting from the wall and this time slides it behind a bureau. "There," he says. "Now nobody shall find it." He reaches out a hand and smiles. "Come," he says. "We should go back to sleep, and you must rest tomorrow."

  He leads me back to the bedroom. As I'm preparing to return to bed, however, I happen to put my hand on my shoulder, and I feel something peculiar. There is a lump under the skin. I'm quite sure it wasn't there yesterday, yet now it is quite noticeable.

  "Is something wrong?" Edward asks as he climbs into bed.

  "No," I say, determined not to worry him. I join him in the bed. "Everything is quite alright," I continue. "I'm so sorry for having worried you. Please try to get back to sleep."

  "Good night, my dear," Edward says. Soon he's fast asleep, but I'm left to stare at the ceiling. The first rays of the morning sun are starting to appear outside the window, and I doubt I shall get much more sleep tonight. Nevertheless, the stirrings of light make the house less daunting, and I feel much safer now that the shadows are receding. Tonight was extremely p
eculiar, and I am absolutely certain that I am not mistaken: I heard a noise, and someone was moving about in the house. Whether it was Lively, or Margaret, or one of the other servants, I do not know. But there was someone downstairs, and that pebble must have come from somewhere.

  I touch the lump on my shoulder again. It's as large as a walnut, and rather troubling. There's no discomfort, but I worry that it portends some serious health concern. How did it grow so large in such a short period of time? As I ponder such questions, I find myself becoming tired, and finally I start to slip back into a dark and dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Four

  When I wake up, something is very different.

  The morning sun has risen and light is streaming into the room. I turn and find that Edward is no longer in the bed, and when I reach across I feel that his side is cold. He must have been up for some hours, which raises the question of how long I have slept. It is not seemly for a woman of my status to remain in bed for so long unless she is gravely ill, and I most certainly am not ill.

  I listen and hear no sounds coming from the rest of the house, but when I reach out for the bell in order to summon Margaret, I find that my limbs feel tired. I pause, wondering what might be the cause of this terrible fatigue with which I am suffering. Clenching and unclenching my fist several times, I feel as if I have been drained of all resolve. Finally I take the bell and ring it, and a few minutes later Margaret enters the room.

  "I trust you slept well, Madame?" she says, as usual.

  "What time is it?" I ask.

  "It's a quarter past eleven," she replies as she arranges my clothing for the day. "I was informed that you should be allowed to sleep in for as long as necessary, Madame."

  I look over at the window. "Where is my husband?" I ask.