The Vanishing

by Wendy Webb

  I guessed she was right.

  “Also, miss, I wanted to let you know that the power is out.”

  I looked around the room. “Really? I’ve been sitting here in front of the window and didn’t even realize the lights were off.”

  “There’s no telling how long it will be out,” she said. “With heavy snowfall like this, it can be out for days. I’ve had the girls move most of the perishables to the icebox—”

  This struck me as odd. “Icebox?”

  She nodded. “It’s original. We keep it down in the basement kitchen. It comes in handy during times like this.”

  “I guess there’s no shortage of ice for it outside,” I offered, thinking that I didn’t even know there was a basement kitchen and wondering what else about Havenwood I didn’t know.

  “Quite. I know you’re not in the habit of venturing into the kitchen yourself, but I just thought I’d mention that it’s best not to open the refrigerator until the power comes back on. There isn’t room in the icebox for everything, so we need to keep as much cold in the refrigerator as we can, and that means not opening the door.”

  I nodded. “Got it.”

  “And,” she continued, gesturing to a small kerosene lantern on one of the tables, “you’ll want to use that to get around the house, especially as night falls. This house is dark as a tomb without the lights.”

  I looked around the room and felt a shudder pass through me. I had no desire to be wandering the corridors in the inky blackness of an almost two-hundred-year-old house.

  “Of course, we have flashlights, but it’s best not to waste the battery power if we can help it,” she said, smoothing her apron. “Do you need anything else?”

  “I don’t think so.” I smiled at her. “Thank you, Marion.”

  She turned and walked to the door, stopping just before she went through it.

  “Will you be staying in the west salon today?” she asked me.

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Then I’ll bring your lunch to you here,” she told me. “Mrs. Sinclair likes to stay in her suite when the power is out.” She gazed about the room. “This salon is so bright and cheery, it’s a good place for you to be on a day like this.”

  With that, she disappeared into the dark hallway.

  I curled my legs under me and covered my lap with an afghan that had been slung over the back of the chair. I opened my book to the passage where I had left off. I had a fire in the fireplace, plenty of light to read by, and a freshly refilled cup of Baileys and hot chocolate. What did it matter to me if the power was out? I had everything I needed, right there.

  I read for a while, but my eyes kept turning to the pad of paper on the end table. I hadn’t written in so long, but maybe I would find inspiration here.

  Another thought hit me then. I realized I hadn’t done a whole lot of thinking about my future. I had left my past behind and was here at Havenwood for the time being, but I really didn’t know how long I wanted to stay—or how long I’d be welcome to stay—and I had no idea what I’d do when I left. Adrian had promised to give me a fresh start with a new identity, and fortuitously enough, the fire had ensured that nobody would come looking for me once I left Havenwood for good. But there was still the matter of making a living. I’d have to earn my keep, new identity or not. The last job I’d had was at Jeremy’s firm, and I wasn’t exactly going to be touting that on a résumé. But I had enjoyed modest success with the one novel I wrote, way back when. Maybe I could catch lightning in a bottle a second time, under a different name, of course. I closed the book I was reading and picked up the legal pad and pen.

  But what would I write about? I started jotting down notes of things that had happened to me, or struck me, since I came to Havenwood, in an effort to crystallize my thoughts into possible plot lines or themes. Aging novelist. Haunted mansion. Dark hallways. Paintings come to life. Dog protectors. Horseback rides through the wilderness.

  But one subject kept coming up, over and over again. Seraphina. I couldn’t deny that I was fascinated by my resemblance to the woman in the painting, to Seraphina, the greatest psychic medium who ever lived. I had denied it so vehemently, but the possibility of it kept floating through my mind. Was she really my great-great-grandmother? Could it be?

  I wrote until Marion materialized with lunch—split pea soup with ham and crusty bread, which I devoured. After that, I made several false starts trying to get interested in my book again, but I could not stop thinking about the previous night’s oddity. I closed the book and set it on my lap, staring outside at the snow, which was whipping sideways in the stiff wind.

  Everyone had made so much of the resemblance between Seraphina and me the night before. Why was Mrs. Sinclair so fixated on that? The fact that Adrian had tried so clumsily to convince me it was nothing told me it was something. As I sat there, mesmerized by the snowflakes that were darting through the air like millions of tiny beings, I let my imagination soar with them, this way and that.

  Whether she was related to me or not, Seraphina had been a visitor in this house more than a century earlier. Maybe, somewhere in her story, I could find a tale that I’d like to tell the world. Maybe she’d be my inspiration, just like she was an inspiration for Mrs. Sinclair. And there was only one place in the house where I could find out more about her. So I gathered up my books and pad of paper, lit the kerosene lantern with the matches Marion had left beside it, and set off for the library to do a little sleuthing.

  Despite the soft glow of the lantern, the corridors were as dark as night, and as I walked, the sound of my footsteps echoed, bouncing off the walls and ceiling. It was a strange sensation, being plunged into such darkness when I knew it wasn’t much past one o’clock. But with the snow blocking out the sun and the construction of the hallways themselves as internal corridors with rooms on either side and windows only on each end, it made for an almost total blackout. Marion was right; I had no desire to find myself here with no light to guide my way.

  I was very glad that I’d had several days to familiarize myself with Havenwood’s layout. But even as it was, I inched my way down the corridors and through the salons and finally found myself on the opposite side of the house, grateful I hadn’t run into any otherworldly denizens.

  I pushed open the library doors, and after a futile attempt to switch on the lights—I rolled my eyes at myself—I stepped into the room. Even though I had just come from a dim hallway, it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness there. It was as though the books themselves were soaking up even the faint light coming through the stained-glass windows. I tried not to look into the blackness and instead focused on the light coming from my lantern, but every so often the corners of my eyes would catch a figure—nothing more ominous than a chair here and a table there—but in that darkness it seemed to be a creature, crouching and ready to strike.

  I began to wonder if I shouldn’t just come back when the lights were on, but then thought better of it. “You’re here,” I said aloud, my voice reverberating through the cavernous room, “you might as well get what you came for.”

  So I began to search the shelves, holding the lantern in front of me to illuminate the spines of the books. I saw biographies, history books, classics from literature, my hallowed first editions shelf, travel stories, fairy tales, political tomes, and much, much more before I finally found the section I was seeking—the occult. I had seen it when I had been in the library before and quickly passed by it, but if this library contained any books about Seraphina, I knew this was where they would reside.

  As I ran my finger from spine to spine, words like “spells” and “magic” and “tarot” and “Spiritualism” seemed to illuminate themselves and hover just above the spines, and more than that, they seemed to be whispering, hissing, even floating on the air around me. I could faintly hear them beckoning me to choose them, to pull their books off the shelf and open the pages.

  And then I saw what I had come for. Seraphina:
The Most Famous Psychic Medium of the Spiritualist Age.

  I intended to simply take the book, leave the library, and find my way back to the west salon’s brightness, but I just couldn’t wait to see what it contained. I slid the slim volume off the shelf and sat down at the table nearest the door, set my lantern on the table, and opened the book.

  On the very first page I found a photograph of a woman in a long, dark dress, sitting in an ornately carved chair next to a fireplace in what looked to be a fancy drawing room. I took a quick breath in when I realized that the painting I had seen of Seraphina didn’t do her, or my resemblance to her, justice. It was like looking at a picture of myself dressed up in the costume of another age. I flipped back to the title page to make sure—it was published in 1890—and then I turned back to the photo of Seraphina.

  I don’t know how long I sat there staring her. It was as though she had reached out of the page and pulled me in. I found myself imagining all sorts of things. I thought about the room where she was sitting—what color were the walls? Blue? Yes. Definitely blue. What other furniture might have been there? A fainting couch? Who else was with her? Was this photo taken in Seraphina’s home? And if so, where was that home?

  I was holding the book up closer to my eyes to get a better look at the photo in the dim light of the room, when something dropped out of it. A letter, its envelope yellowed, the front addressed in neat handwriting that was fading with age.

  Havenwood Estate

  Grand Marais, Minnesota

  What was this? I was so mesmerized by this letter from the past that I didn’t even hear him come in. At least, that was what I told myself later, when I came back to myself and was thinking clearly.

  I had just begun to take the letter out of its envelope, when I felt someone’s breath on my neck. Panting softly, as though he had been holding his breath awhile and finally let it out. I grabbed the lantern and shot up, wheeling the light around in a circle and knocking the chair to the ground.

  “Who’s there?” I shouted. “Drew? Adrian?” Silence. I turned again, shining the light in a wide circle around me. I didn’t see anyone.

  A hallucination? Or was it one of Havenwood’s wayward, benign ghosts that slipped from a painting into real life? I wasn’t sure, but I wasn’t going to stick around to find out. I grabbed the book, stuffed the letter back where I had found it, and slipped the volume into the pocket of my cardigan, when just then, I heard it.

  Laughter, slow and low, and decidedly not full of mirth. It was unquestionably a man’s voice, but it didn’t sound like Drew or Adrian.

  “Show yourself!” I yelled, my own voice cracking despite my attempt at bravado. “You’re really a big man, standing in the dark and trying to scare a woman. How about coming into the light and trying the same thing?” I had no idea what I’d do if he took me up on the offer.

  I shone the light around my little corner of the room again. Books. The table. Chairs. Nothing else. No ghosts, and certainly no real-life people. I gathered up my wits and marched toward the door.

  I had just reached it and grabbed the handle when I heard the voice again.

  “Julia.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  I shoved the library door open with all of my might and ran down the hallway at full speed, the lantern swaying before me, casting strange and macabre shadows on the walls.

  I didn’t stop running until I heard a familiar voice.

  “Julia! Hey, what’s the matter?”

  I snapped my head around to see Drew, his face full of concern. He was at my side instantly.

  “What’s happened?” he said, taking hold of my arms and looking into my eyes, his voice low and soothing. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I took a few deep breaths in. “Worse than that,” I huffed. “I think somebody is in the house.”

  He shook his head. “That’s impossible.”

  “No,” I said, still trying to catch my breath. “No, Drew. I was just in the library, and somebody was in there with me.”

  He smiled slightly. “This house can play tricks on you, Julia. Especially when the lights are out. Is it the same thing you saw yesterday?”

  I shook my head and pulled away from him. “No, you don’t understand. This wasn’t a hallucination or anything otherworldly. Somebody—a man!—was standing right behind me. I felt his breath on my neck and then he said—”

  “What did he say?”

  I could barely get the words out. “He said my name,” I whispered. “Whoever this is, he’s here for me, Drew.”

  He looked at me seriously for a moment and then took me by the arm. “Come on. Let’s go into the drawing room where we can talk.”

  “No!” I said, looking back down the dark hallway, my voice a harsh whisper. “There’s somebody in the library! We need to tell Adrian. Or call the police. Or something. But whatever it is, we need to do it now!”

  “I know,” he said, his grip firm on my arm. “Come with me.” And we walked down the corridor together, my heart beating hard and fast in my chest.

  “He said my name, Drew. You believe me, don’t you?”

  He nodded slightly. “Of course I do.”

  He steered me into the drawing room, where someone had lit a blazing fire in the fireplace. Dozens of candles in stained-glass holders were glittering on end tables and on the hearth, casting a warm light throughout the room. The whole effect was soothing and comforting, exactly what I needed.

  “It looks like a church alcove in here,” I said, exhaling for what seemed to be the first time in a very long time.

  He smiled. “Electricity is overrated.”

  I sunk down onto the leather sofa in front of the fire, and Drew made his way over to the sideboard and opened a bottle of wine.

  “What’s that they say?” He smiled as he handed me a glass. “It’s five o’clock somewhere? Anyway, I thought you could use this.”

  I reached out for the glass with shaking hands, which he noticed. “You really did have a fright, didn’t you?”

  “Listen, we need to call the police. Somebody is in the house and—”

  He put up a hand to stop me. “Nobody is in the house, Julia.”

  I shook my head. “Yes, there is! I heard—”

  Just then, Adrian materialized under the archway. “What’s this about somebody being in the house?”

  Drew walked back to the sideboard and poured Adrian a drink, holding it out to him. “I think Julia just met Gideon.”

  “Are you all right?” Adrian asked, coming toward me.

  “I was terrified, actually,” I said. “Who’s Gideon?”

  “I thought he was gone,” Drew said, more to Adrian than to me.

  “So did I,” Adrian mused, looking into the fire. “Wishful thinking, apparently. Does Mother know?”

  Drew shook his head. “I think it’s best we don’t tell her. Not yet.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Are you two going to tell me what you’re talking about?” I said, moving closer to them. “Who’s Gideon? A servant? The groundskeeper?” But the cramp in my stomach told me I didn’t want to know the answer.

  Adrian and Drew exchanged a charged glance, but I couldn’t tell exactly what it was charged with—worry? Fear? Embarrassment?

  “Okay,” I said, setting my drink down on the table a bit too forcefully. “One of you needs to start talking right now. All I know is, I was in the library, and somebody was in there with me. He said my name. Obviously you two know who it was, and you need to tell me right now.”

  “You’re right, Julia—” Drew began, but I cut him off.

  “Damn right I’m right! And I really don’t like the idea of this guy creeping around here. He scared the life out of me, and he enjoyed it. I need to know if I should be locking my door at night.” I took a breath. “And what’s this about not telling Mrs. Sinclair?”

  Adrian smiled. “You don’t need to lock your door unless you want to, and you don’t need to worry about Gideon
, not really.” He shot a look at Drew, who shrugged his shoulders. “We’re not telling Mother because she tends to make more out of this kind of thing than there is.”

  “More of what kind of thing?”

  “The fact is, Julia, we don’t quite know who Gideon is,” Adrian said. “Or I guess the proper word is ‘was.’ ”

  We stood in silence for a moment. “Was. So you’re saying that Gideon is a ghost?”

  All of my strange experiences since I had come to Havenwood rushed into my mind, from the paintings coming to life to floating, singing apparitions to the girls in my room trying on dresses. I had been holding out some kind of hope that those visions had been induced by my stopping my medication so abruptly, but now—was it something else?

  “I guess I’m not surprised,” Drew said to Adrian more than to me. “What with opening up the east salon again.”

  “I was afraid it might happen.” Adrian sighed. “I had no idea she was going to open that room so soon.”

  “I’m going to give you about five seconds to tell me what this is all about or I’m going to…” My words trailed off as I realized I had no threat to make, not really. “Seriously. What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

  Adrian just stared into the fire and shook his head.

  “You need to tell me what this is all about,” I said. “Trust me enough to do that, please.”

  “I do trust you, my dear.” Adrian half smiled at me.

  “Then tell me the truth. I can understand you wanting to shield your mother from things, but if I’m going to be living in this house I need to know what’s going on. I don’t want another surprise like the one I had in the library just now.”

  “Well, then,” Adrian began, “I suggest we all freshen our drinks and settle in. This is going to take a while.”

  Drew came around and filled our glasses as Adrian sunk into an armchair by the fire and crossed his legs. I sat on the sofa opposite him, and Drew slid in beside me.