Teeth in the Mist

by Dawn Kurtagich

  Jenny busies herself with the fire, which has burned down to glowing embers once more, but Roan can see she is pleased. A warm glow suffuses her face as she bends low, lifting the poker from the iron grid.

  “There is a bell on the wall by your bed,” Jenny says. “It links directly to my room. If you need anything, miss, I am happy to bring it for you. Master had it specially installed for you.”

  A chill slinks up Roan’s spine. “When?”

  “Last week, I think.”

  Her father had been alive last week.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, miss. I’m to make you comfortable and happy. Strict instructions.”

  “Well, I can fetch food for myself well enough,” Roan mutters.

  “I should be going,” Andrew murmurs in turn. “Dr. Maudley will expect me.”

  Roan nods to him, a little disappointed. “Good night—oh, well, good morning I should say. It was nice to meet you.”

  “And you, miss.”

  As he turns to go, he mouths, Roan, grins, and then leaves. Roan finds herself grinning back.

  “Tea, miss? While I bake the morning scones.”

  “Let me help you,” Roan says, getting to her feet.

  Jenny holds up her hands. “Please, no. It is my duty.”

  “Very well,” Roan says, sitting back down. “Perhaps you can tell me what you meant, then, when you said no local man would set foot into this house?”

  Jenny fetches eggs from the icebox, and lowers the flour from the ceiling. “It is a simple fact, miss.”

  “Why would they not come to work? No doubt Dr. Maudley can afford to pay them adequately for their services? A house this size must surely need a host of servants to keep it running.”

  Jenny nods, cracking open the eggs into a bowl. “The master could pay them several times over, I expect. But nothing will induce any local man to come.”

  “Heavens, why not? Are you being intentionally evasive?”

  Jenny pauses, wiping her hands on her apron. “I am not permitted to speak of it. Master doesn’t like the talk. Mrs. Goode finds it bothersome also.”

  Roan is silent a moment. “Why do you wear this silly tall hat?” she asks at last, looking at the curiosity atop the girl’s head. Not quite like a stovepipe hat, this is smaller, and odd-looking, narrowing as it rises.

  “It is what we wear, miss.”

  Roan sighs. “Please, call me Roan. At least when we are in private company.” She takes the girl’s hand between her own. “I am a woman as you are, am I not?”

  Jenny bites her lip, tears springing to her eyes.

  Roan releases her hand. “Are you afraid of me? Have I done something to make you so?”

  “Oh, no, please don’t think that. It is this place, and Mrs. Goode. If she were to discover I had been talking with you, miss, on Master’s time, and if she were to learn I spoke of… the stories… I would be dismissed.”

  “Well, she shall never know. I am a nocturnal creature. While all others slumber, I walk and I read and I listen.”

  Jenny again mutters something in Welsh under her breath.

  “What is it, girl? Do you hate the night hours?”

  Jenny flushes. “I must admit that I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Everyone is gone. I’m alone. But there is work to be done. Fires to kindle, tables to dust, breakfast to be made.”

  “What of the other girls?”

  Jenny smiles. “Mrs. Goode and I are the only two who stay overnight. We have rooms in the attic. Everyone else, excepting Andrew, leaves before dark.”

  “Is it because of what you said? Earlier? About how no man would come to Mill House?”

  Jenny puts down her cup and crosses herself. “This is a superstitious place, miss. There are stories tied to this house—long-ago stories. The people remember.”

  Roan is silent for a moment. “Tell me the stories.”

  “But, the Master—”

  “I am not the Master, and I would like to hear.”

  Jenny stares at the eggs in the bowl, her eyes glazed over. “There really is only one story, and then tales. Folktales.”

  “Do you believe them? These tales?”

  Jenny looks away and that alone is answer enough.

  “Tell me. I live here now.”

  “It is a dark tale.”

  “Aren’t they all? Come, I will warm the water for the tea. You make the scones and talk.”

  “The legend,” Jenny begins, “says that this house, Pant Tywyll, is cursed because of one man who came, long ago.”

  “What does that name mean? Pant Tywyll.”

  “Devil’s Peak, miss.”

  Roan nods. “Go on. I will say nothing until you are finished.”

  “A man arrived, a hundred or more years ago, name of John Smith. He came with his pretty young wife with the notion to build a water mill on the mountain itself. Folk thought him crazy—there being no water. But he brought wealth and ambition, and work. We have always been a poor folk, and so the locals sprang to when the foreigner needed workers for building.

  “Every man who could walk the distance went to the mountain to build this house and the water mill, which John Smith was fanatical about. A day would not pass without his raving about the water mill, and folk thought him a fool, but kept building as long as there was pay to be had.

  “But then the men began to disappear. They put it down to accidents on the mountain. One day, a lad vanished. He fell into a crevice, maybe. It was sad but not uncommon. But then even more men vanished.

  “At that time, John Smith’s wife bore him a child who also vanished. And another—gone. No one knew where the babies were disappearing off to. Searches were made.

  “It was as though the mountain had devoured them all! Rumors abounded of strange rumblings coming from the rocks beneath the men’s feet at night, and they grew afraid.”

  Jenny takes a steadying breath, her cheeks flushed.

  “Well,” she continues a moment later. “People began to get suspicious. Word of the Lancaster witch had reached the local people by this time. A young lad, the son of one of the vanished men, stumbled across a witch’s ceremony one night and saw figures with horns atop their heads like beasts, dancing around fires that burned strangely.”

  Roan recalls the ram she saw out in the storm and shudders.

  “He ran back to the village half-crazed, shrieking about naked figures and fires and strange devil symbols. There’s a reason it’s called Devil’s Peak, miss. But they ought to have called it Witch’s Peak, for it was John Smith’s own young pretty wife who had bewitched and vanished all those men—and her own children along with them.

  “The villagers went up with a priest and burned the witch alive. But ’twas too late. She had vanished her husband as well, the poor fool with his waterwheel ambition. They say the witch shrieked with laughter as she died and the flames burned blue. To this day, folk hear the witch’s screams on the wind, a reminder that this house—this mountain—is cursed.”

  Jenny sighs as though a great weight has been removed from her chest. She wipes her floured hands on her apron and then folds her hands in her lap.

  “They say,” she offers, a moment later, “that the witch’s angry spirit haunts the house.”

  Roan laughs. “And you believe this?”

  Jenny looks away, color rising. “I have not seen her ghost, but I sometimes feel her here. I cannot help but believe. God would not set foot in this house, I am convinced. People are scared to stay within these walls after dark. We all who dwell beneath this roof are cursed.”

  Roan looks around. She cannot help it. “Why do you do it, then?”

  “Begging your pardon, miss, but I need the pay. I’m the eldest of twelve girls—” She breaks off and swallows. “Eleven. Eleven girls. We lost Mabel last winter. Siân might follow this winter unless I can earn enough to buy some cordials. She’s sickly. Pining after Mabel.”

  Twelve siblings, and all
of them girls, one already in the grave. Roan holds back her astonishment. Though she is still in mourning over the loss of her father, and though mourning has brought back painful memories of her mother, Roan has never before considered that having too many in a family might come with difficulties and sorrow just as deep as her own.

  “Have you spoken to Dr. Maudley about this? Have you asked him to come and see Siân?”

  Jenny’s eyes widen and she leans back. “Oh, Miss Eddington, no. No, no, I cannot.”

  “Why ever not? He’s a doctor. You’re in his employ. Surely—”

  Jenny drops the spoon she has been using to ladle the scone mixture into pans. “Forgive me, miss, but I’ll not be asking for help from those who dwell beneath this roof!”

  Roan looks on, shocked, as Jenny flies from the room like a little gray cat, her strange black hat bouncing upon her head, her skirts bunched and flying, flecks of dough spattered on the table in her wake.

  Jenny’s story has piqued Roan’s interest. She wanders the house once again, this time looking for the library. If there is any truth to the folklore, then surely some evidence of it will be in one of the books. Grand country houses of this age usually sport some sort of history of the region, and she cannot think that Dr. Maudley would be any different. Her own father had kept several thick volumes of both the history of London and the history of their own property. Another unwelcome memory. She pushes it back, along with her grief.

  And at last, the library.

  Thankfully, it is not painted in a silly color of the rainbow, but is wood-paneled in the same carven-oak style. Respectable. There are fewer books than she expects, though, and she is a little disappointed. No doubt they are medical books, given Maudley’s profession. But… no.

  Not medical books at all.

  Her hackles rise as she reads the titles, her fingers yearning to touch the leather-bound volumes, but not daring. These books… all of these books… they are occult in nature, and very familiar to her.

  Daemonium—Devils of Europe.

  Grimoire.

  Faust’s Book of Angelic Charms.

  She knows this last one. Her father once told her that to live, one must read it twice. Once forward and once backward. She continues to read the titles, growing colder with each step.

  The Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses.

  Ceremonial Magic.

  She cannot go on. She is a child again. Locked in the basement in London.

  Seven years ago

  Father paced back and forth while she sat still. He tapped a long wooden ruler in his palm, enunciating.

  “According to legend”—tap—“Johann Georg Faust was a fifteenth-century scholar”—tap—“who made a pact with the Devil. He offered up his soul in exchange for limitless knowledge and all the worldly pleasures man could imagine. But”—Father broke off and the tapping ceased—“that is mere legend. Hearsay. The truth is far darker and much older.” He turned a stern eye on his daughter, who sat up straighter.

  “Faust, in reality known as Faustus, was a monk. A man dedicated to knowledge and the word of God. He lived a life with his brethren beneath the ground to ensure the utmost dedication, free from distraction, free from all temptation. They were a brotherhood. Ancient. But Faustus was avaricious. He feared death and longed for immortality, knowledge, and riches. And so he began to search for a way to commune with the Devil, whom he called Beelzebub.

  “It is not known how, but Faustus made his deal, bartering his soul for thousands of years of life, able to learn and relish in the delights of this world.

  “But…” Father had resumed his pacing. “It is said that Faustus’s time runs short, and so he searches—in a quest to barter back his soul or to gain more time.”

  “But is it true, Father?” little Roan asked, sitting forward.

  “Who can say? But the important thing is… what?”

  Roan considered this for a moment. “The important thing is to make a better deal than Faustus did.”

  She thought she saw her father wince, but then his eyes flashed. “Insolent child. Filia demonica. The important thing is never to meddle with evil in the first place.”

  He glared at her, but then he sighed and everything seemed to slump as though he was suddenly very tired or very sad. He waved a hand as though dismissing her, so she got up and went to the corner where she slept, behind the crates of flour and the wine.

  Father went upstairs and locked the cellar door behind him.

  Little Roan ran her fingers along the symbols carved into the wood all around her, which by now she knew were dark and dangerous magic, and wondered why she and her father did all these things with blood and fire and sigils if it was better to avoid evil completely.

  Roan keeps losing sight of him.

  She is certain the ram is male. The way he wears his horns, proud and curved, the way he stares unabashedly into her eyes. This animal knows nothing of blush nor restraint. She cannot wait, and so she is in her bedclothes as she fumbles her way over rocks and tries not to slip on the dewy moss. It is some time until dawn yet, the sky still lightening from inky black into a deep indigo, but she cannot wait.

  He had been closer this time, lower down the mountain—and she had known, known that he was looking at her. It was no vision, no imagining, no fancy. This lone ram had come to her again, and was calling her out. She had never seen the likes of it before.

  The mists do not clear as she approaches the spot where she saw the beast from her window. Instead, they defy the moon and begin to curl thickly about her. Now and again, she sees the ram’s horns, its eyes, but she never seems to reach it.

  She is whitewashed in the cold fog when she hears it.

  found you.

  She spins around, but there is no one. Nothing except the lonely mountain.

  And the beast.

  She waits to hear more and, like a child hiding beneath the bed, dreads that she might. But the word she hears next is one only she would understand.

  It is as though the mountain has thought the terrible word, yet the eyes piercing her own are sentient, animal, a slit for pupils in amber irises verging on scarlet.

  come to me, little girl,

  there is

  much

  to discuss.

  She freezes. No. No. Shuts her eyes. I am losing my mind, that is all. That is all!

  come.

  “No. Back. Back!”

  But it does not go back. It steps forward. One proud, cloven hoof, then the other, tramping down the earth and burning it. She shakes to witness how like burning embers his hooves are, cracked and burning white, and all black and smoking in his wake. The spell is broken only when the eyes and the horns, the beast in all its horrible, terrible glory is ten feet away. She runs as fast as she can, not caring if she should fall, only that she must get away—far away.

  “Father,” she cries into the wind. “Father, help me!”

  The mists twist and curl in plumes against her and there is no answer.

  She stops only when she careens into a sharp blade, the gleaming silver pressed to her neck. Had she blundered forward, she would be missing her head.

  “I almost killed you.” Mountain Man. He is dressed like a heathen once again, his shirt more stained than white, his hair loose upon his shoulders, and a glint in his slate eyes mirroring something like rage.

  She can’t focus on him. Where is it? Where is the beast? Everywhere she turns the mists withdraw until she can see more clearly again. Except there is no sign of the ram.

  Suddenly Mountain Man is closer. “What happened?” His voice is deep. Close. Changed. His eyes roam her face, searching. “What is it?”

  She blinks. “N-nothing.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  She cannot see the beast. She cannot smell the burning earth. She presses a hand to her head, shaking it.

  “Roan.” Her name. He spoke it. Spoke it low and solemn and desperate. “What’s wrong?”

  Too close
.

  “You are,” she snaps, and steps back. They look at each other for a long moment, he, still searching, she, confounded and frightened.

  I am in exile, she reminds herself. Safety in isolation…

  She stumbles as she turns away.

  “You shouldn’t walk alone on the mountain,” he calls. “Especially clothed… like that.”

  She turns, chin raised. “You do.”

  Heathen he may be, but she looks no better herself.

  He sheathes his ax. “That’s different.”

  “All is different between a man and a woman.” She smiles without humor, realizing how like Emma she sounds.

  Mountain Man’s lips curl. “All the world’s amusing to a woman.”

  Her eyes narrow.

  “Man or woman,” he says, “I would advise the same. Do not walk alone on this mountain.”

  “As you do?”

  “It is different for me.”

  She crosses her arms. “Certainly. There are no rules for you, are there? You can do as you please while the master of the house is away. You may come and go as you like, throw your ax, live savagely, and run around the mountain like a boy playing warrior. Well. Dr. Maudley is coming home, and let us see what he thinks of your treatment of me and your proclivity to do just as you please like a barbarian!”

  He crosses the space between them in three long strides, his face close to hers. His nostrils flare, wolflike, and she can see his teeth—also canine.

  “You know nothing of it. I was raised on this mountain.” Spittle hits her cheek. “I know of its tricks and follies. If you would risk life and damnation besides, then go. Explore. And to hell with you and Dr. Maudley.”

  He stares a moment, so close he could bite her. And then he is gone, striding away into the dawn, the mists closing behind him like a veil.

  “You will not alarm me!” she calls after him, rubbing her arms. “Not with your words, nor with your ax!”

  “Brute!” she screams after another long moment.