by Syrie James
Lucy’s face went deadly white as she listened. “What did the captain mean—to ‘baffle this fiend or monster’? Who, or what, did he see? Who killed all those men?”
I shook my head. “It is a mystery. No one knows what became of the great dog, either. It must have wandered onto the moors and still be hiding there in terror, for now it has no master. Added to all this is the terrible tragedy of what happened to old Mr. Swales last night.”
The elderly sailor, who had entertained us so recently with his tales of Whitby’s past, had been found dead early that morning on our very own bench, with a broken neck and a look of fear and horror frozen on his face. “The poor, dear, old man!” Lucy said. “Do you think the doctors are right—that he fell back in some sort of fright?”
“It is possible. He was very old—nearly a hundred, he said. Perhaps he saw Death with his own dying eyes.”
“To think that it happened right here, on our very own seat,” Lucy replied with a shudder. “It is too, too distressing.”
I DECIDED TO TAKE LUCY ON A LONG WALK TO ROBIN HOOD’S BAY that afternoon, hoping to so tire her out, that she would have no inclination for sleep-walking. It was a lovely day. We made our way there in gay spirits, and enjoyed a capital tea in a sweet, little, old-fashioned inn, sitting at a table by a bow-window with a marvellous view of the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. We took our time walking home, with many stoppages to rest.
“I have been thinking over what Arthur wrote in his last letter,” Lucy remarked as we ambled along a path crossing a verdant field. “It was so sweet and endearing, the way he expressed his love for me and laid out all his plans for our wedding and our future. Perhaps Mamma is right, and we should be married this autumn.”
“I think that would make her very happy.”
“Arthur has offered to purchase a special license,” Lucy went on, her eyes shining, “so that we can be married at a beautiful old church in his parish and have our reception at Ring Manor. All the men will wear morning coats, and I will carry orange blossoms. I mean to have ever so many bridesmaids! Will you be my maid of honour, Mina?”
“Of course I will!” We stopped to embrace, an encounter which caught the attention of a group of cows, who nosed towards us with unexpected speed and gave us quite a fright.
“I hope you do not mind,” Lucy said, as we ran on down the path, laughing, “that I will be married before you—even though you were engaged first and are older than I.”
“I do not mind at all, Lucy. I am happy for you!”
“I have not forgotten our promise about the mystery of the Wedding Night,” Lucy added. “That whoever gets married first must reveal everything to the other!”
We both giggled at that, as colour rose to our cheeks. “You are not obligated to tell me absolutely everything, Lucy. Some things, I think, are meant to be private.”
“We shall see about that. I must admit, I am very curious! Meanwhile, Mamma says my wedding dress will be fashioned of white silk in the newest style, and trimmed in the finest white lace. What about you? Who will make your wedding dress?”
“I cannot afford anything new. I will probably just wear my best dress.”
“Your best dress? Do you mean the black silk?” Lucy cried, aghast.
“Yes. I made it myself, and I think it very pretty. I took great care with the embroidery. Jonathan always compliments me when I wear it.”
“But black! Mina, black is for mourning!”
“Black is also very practical. Women often marry in black.”
“I do not care. I will not hear of you wearing black at your wedding, Mina. White has been the colour of choice for half a century, ever since Queen Victoria wore white lace to marry Prince Albert.”
“Yes, but women still wear all sorts of different colours on their wedding-day.”
“Godey’s Lady’s Book insists that white is the most fitting hue. It is an emblem of the purity and innocence of girlhood, and the unsullied heart she now yields to the chosen one. Have you not heard the poem?”
“What poem?”
Lucy recited:
Married in white, you will have chosen all right.
Married in grey, you will go far away.
Married in black, you will wish yourself back.
Married in red, you will wish yourself dead.
Married in blue, you will always be true.
Married in pearl, you will live in a whirl.
Married in green, ashamed to be seen.
Married in yellow, ashamed of the fellow.
Married in brown, you will live out of town.
Married in pink, your spirits will sink.
I laughed. “That is just silly superstition.”
“It is not. Some things, I believe, are meant to be taken very seriously; and the colour of your bridal dress is so important. Do you remember Sarah Collins from school? She married in grey: you will go far away. Well! Two months later, she and her husband emigrated to America! And our dear friend, Kate Reed? She wore green—ashamed to be seen—and ever since her husband lost all his money in that bad business scheme, she has been so mortified by their reduced circumstances that we never hear from her!”
“Those are just coincidences, Lucy. I am sure I can marry in any colour I like and be very happy.”
Lucy shook her head, unconvinced. “Married in black, you will wish yourself back.”
“Wish yourself back? What does that even mean?”
“Perhaps it means that you will travel a great distance from home and be unable to return, no matter how hard you wish it. Oh! I would be devastated if you were to move far away, Mina! It is hard enough that you will be living in Exeter, where I suppose I shall only be able to see you a few times a year.” She turned to me with the most grave expression in her blue eyes, imploring: “Please promise me that you will not marry in black, Mina, or you will be sorry all the rest of your days.”
She looked so earnest that I could not bear to disappoint her. “I will see what my budget allows, dearest. If I do have a white dress made, it will have to be a very simple one, which I can wear again on a regular basis.”
This cheered her up somewhat. All the rest of the way back to Whitby, Lucy chatted on excitedly about her wedding plans, her honeymoon trip, the new dresses and hats she would be requiring, the arrangement of her furniture in her new house, and etc. While I was very happy for her, all this talk about marriage and future domestic arrangements caused me a little pang of envy and sadness—for I still had no idea where Jonathan was.
THAT VERY NIGHT, THE HORRORS BEGAN.
THREE
LUCY AND I WERE SO TIRED FROM OUR LONG WALK THAT we crept off to our chamber as soon as decorum allowed. Minutes later, Lucy was slumbering peacefully in her bed, and I gratefully laid my head on my pillow just minutes after closing my journal.
Did I fall asleep and dream—or did I imagine it, fully wakened? I cannot be sure; all I remember is that the tall figure with the red eyes from my earlier dream appeared again in my mind, and his voice called to me out of the darkness in a tone that was both adamant and softly entrancing:
“My darling: you will soon be mine.”
I awoke with a gasp, my heart pounding. Why did I continue to have that dream—if a dream it was? What did the words mean? Whose “darling” was I?
I had no idea what time it was. The room was very dark and eerily quiet. I suddenly realised, to my dismay, that I could not hear the sounds of Lucy’s gentle respiration. I found a match and struck it—and a sense of dread came over me. Lucy’s bed was empty! Worse yet, the key to our chamber was resting in the lock, instead of in its place about my wrist.
I leapt from my bed and made a mad dash through the house, but Lucy was nowhere to be found. Moreover, the hall-door leading to the outside was no longer locked, as it had been when we retired. Breathlessly, I returned to our chamber, put on my shoes, and for propriety’s sake, fastened a big, heavy shawl about my shoulders with a large safety pin. A qui
ck glance through Lucy’s clothing revealed that her dressing-gown and all of her dresses were still in their places—which meant that she must have walked out into the night clad only in her thin white nightdress! Horrified, I hurried out into the street to search for her.
I flew down the Crescent and along the North Terrace, looking in every direction for a glimpse of a slight figure dressed in white. It was a cool, windy night, and I shivered as I ran. The moon was bright and full, blinking in and out of view between heavy, driving black clouds. At the edge of the West Cliff, I strained my eyes to look across the harbour, worrying that Lucy might have gone up to the bench we liked to frequent, in the churchyard on the other side.
At first, everything around St. Mary’s Church was obscured in shadow, and I could perceive nothing. Then, just as the bells in the church tower struck a single, echoing toll, a shaft of moonlight illuminated the church and churchyard, and I glimpsed the very sight I had been fearing: a figure, clad in snowy white, was half-reclining on our favourite seat, and another figure—very dark—was bending over it.
Overwhelmed by an ever-growing fear, I raced down the steps to the pier. The town was deadly silent, not a soul in view, as I flew along past the fish-market and across the bridge, then started up the seemingly interminable flight of steps to the church. It was a great distance, perhaps a mile in all, and although I ran as fast as my feet would carry me, it took me quite some time to cover it. As I neared the top of the steps, I was gasping for breath and had a painful stitch in my side, but I pressed on. At last, in the dim glow of the silvery moonlight, I once more caught sight of the dark-haired, reclining figure on the seat across the way. It was Lucy! To my horror, a long, black—something—was still bending over her.
“Lucy! Lucy!” I cried.
There came no answer. I started in terror as the dark figure behind her straightened, and a pair of gleaming red eyes stared back at me. What was it? Man or beast? And those red eyes! They were just like the eyes of the figure I had seen in my dream! Was the being real, or only a figment of my fear and imagination?
My heart pounded in dread as I passed by the church, where I lost sight of Lucy for a moment. Why, I wondered, was that thing—if it was real—hovering over Lucy? What was Lucy doing there? Did she go to him—or it—willingly? Did he overpower her? Was Lucy awake or asleep? Or—dear God—was she dead?
I raced across the empty churchyard. By the time I reached Lucy’s side, the mysterious figure had vanished. Lucy was barefoot and leaning back over the iron bench, her eyes closed, her long raven curls spilling out behind her. Her lips were curved in a half smile, and she was taking in long, dreamy, languorous breaths. I sighed with relief; she was alive! And she was clearly asleep. I looked around, terrified that the red-eyed phantom might reappear at any instant, but all was dark and silent around us.
Lucy started shivering in her sleep. I quickly wrapped my shawl around her and used my safety pin to fasten it at her throat—an action which, to my dismay, must have inadvertently pricked her—for she put her hand to her throat and moaned. I sat down beside her, took off my shoes, put them on her feet, and then gently tried to wake her. It took some doing; in the end, I had to call her name several times and forcibly shake her to bring her round.
“Mina?” Lucy said softly, when she finally opened her eyes and looked at me with a drowsy smile. “What is it? Why have you wakened me?”
I strained to keep my voice even so as not to frighten her. “Dearest: you have been sleep-walking again.”
“Have I? How funny.” Lucy yawned and stretched as she glanced about, and then said in surprise, “Where are we? Is this the churchyard?”
“It is, my sweet.”
“Oh!” She looked confused for a moment; and then—although her mind must have been somewhat appalled at finding herself in a graveyard in the middle of the night, wearing nothing but her nightdress—she only smiled prettily, trembled a little, put her arms around me, and said: “Did I truly walk all the way up here, alone?”
“I am afraid you did. Lucy: I saw someone with you. Do you remember anything?”
“No; nothing, since I went to bed,” she replied, sounding a little frightened now. “Who did you see?”
“I do not know. It was from a distance away; it was very dark. Perhaps I imagined it.”
“I remember nothing,” she repeated, her brow furrowing, “except that—I was having a dream. It is all so foggy; you know I never remember my dreams. I only recall that I was walking along a path. I heard a dog barking, and then I saw—” Suddenly she stopped speaking, as a far-away look came into her blue eyes.
“What did you see?”
Lucy remained silent for a long moment; then she shook her head and said abruptly: “Now it is gone. I cannot remember.”
I sensed that Lucy recalled more than she was admitting. However, this was neither the time nor the place to ask about it; the specter of the dark, red-eyed figure still filled me with apprehension. “Come. We must get you back to the house at once.” Lucy rose obediently and allowed me to lead her. When we started down the gravel path, she saw me wince as the sharp stones cut into my bare feet.
“Wait,” Lucy said. “Why am I wearing your shoes? You must take them back.”
“No! There is no time. We must get home, and quickly. What if someone were to catch sight of us, walking barefoot and unclad in a churchyard in the dead of night? What would they think?”
The notion seemed to alarm Lucy. She did not press the point but hurried on. All the way home, my heart pounded with fear and dread that we would be seen, or—far worse—would again encounter the mysterious being from the churchyard; but fortunately, we reached our room without meeting any one and securely locked the door behind us.
After washing our feet, we knelt by my bed to pray, to thank God for delivering us home in safety. As we rose, Lucy took me in her arms and said, “Thank you for coming to look for me, Mina.”
We hugged each other tightly. “I hate to think what would have happened if you had awakened in that dark churchyard all alone.”
“Yes,” was her abrupt reply. As she pulled out of my embrace, I thought I glimpsed a secretive, mysterious look briefly flit across her face. What was she not telling me? I longed to ask her about it, but I did not have the nerve. After all, I had my own guilty secret, did I not—about the man I had met in the churchyard?
“I am happy you are safe now. But I would like to know how you got the key to our room off my wrist, without waking me!”
Lucy shrugged and said simply, “I am sorry. I cannot remember.”
I stood quietly while Lucy bound the key to my wrist once more with a ribbon, making sure to tie very tight knots this time. We crawled into our beds, and all was quiet for a long while as I shivered beneath the counterpane, too agitated to sleep. I assumed Lucy had dropped off; but then her voice came out of the darkness.
“Mina: will you do me a favour?”
“Anything, my dear.”
“Will you promise not to say a word about this to any one? Not even Mamma?”
I hesitated. I understood, of course, what Lucy was concerned about. Should such a story leak out, her reputation might suffer injury; not on account of her sleep-walking, but from the impropriety of her appearing unclad at night in the churchyard, a story which would undoubtedly become distorted by gossiping tongues. “Do you not think your mother, at least, ought to know?”
“No. Mamma has not been very well of late. I would not want to give her any more cause to worry. Think how she would fret were she to become privy to all this! And she is not the most discreet individual. She and Arthur are very close. I would simply die if Mamma were to disclose this to him.”
“All right, then. I will say nothing. We will pretend it never happened.”
LUCY SLEPT LATE THAT MORNING. WHEN I WOKE HER AT ELEVEN, she looked rather pale; overnight, her skin had somehow lost any trace of the lovely, rosy hue with which it had been formerly imbued by the summer sun
. Despite this, she awoke in excellent spirits, with a sparkle in her eyes and a little, self-satisfied smile on her face.
I could not account for these curious changes at the time—although I later came to understand them far too well. I was merely grateful that our adventure in the night had not harmed her but had instead apparently benefited her somehow. Perhaps, I thought, she has just awakened from a very pleasant dream.
As I was getting dressed, however, and Lucy was brushing her hair before the looking-glass, I noticed something which filled me with regret.
“Lucy! What is that on your throat?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, drawing back her cloud of dark hair and turning her head this way and that, as she studied her reflection.
“On the side of your neck, there: what are those two marks?” They were two little red points, like pin-pricks; and just below, a crimson drop of dried blood stood out in sharp relief against the snowy white collar of her nightdress.
“I have no idea. They were not there yesterday.”
“Oh dear!” I cried, distressed. “It is my fault. Last night, when I pinned my shawl around you, I must have accidentally pierced your skin. I am so sorry! Does it hurt very much?”
Lucy laughed and patted me on the shoulder. “I do not even feel it. It is nothing, truly.”
“I hope it will not leave a scar; the marks are very tiny.”
“Do not concern yourself so. I am sure they will heal very quickly. The collar of my day gown will no doubt hide them, but just in case—” Lucy buckled her black velvet band around her throat, obscuring the marks from view. “There. Now no one will ever know a thing about them.”
