Shadows of the Silver Screen

by Christopher Edge

  She hesitated, not wanting to risk the wrath of this unseen presence. But the drawer now lay still. Whatever supernatural force was at work here, it seemed satisfied that it had her attention. This was something she was meant to see.

  Reaching into the drawer, Penelope picked up the bundle of papers, and, carefully unknotting the ribbon, laid them out on the dresser. In the candlelight she could see letters, postcards and photographs – a secret store of memories that for some reason had been hidden away. Bending her head more closely to the first of the letters, Penny began to read.

  No. 4, Hartshorne Alley, Pimlico, London

  Sunday 31 August 1879

  Dear Amelia,

  I must beg your forgiveness for not writing sooner, but I feared the consequences if this letter reached your father’s eyes. Although I have been forced to leave Stoke Eversholt, my concern for your safety remains undimmed by the distance now between us. The scars that I bear from the beating your father gave to me are nothing compared to the pain I glimpsed in your eyes. I cannot express my anger at the cruel treatment he has shown you, and am only sorry that your kindness could be so shamefully misconstrued.

  I pray night and day for your speedy recovery and, as I seek my fortune in London, I only hope that it will be in my power one day to return to right this great wrong.

  Your sincere friend,

  Edward

  As Penelope finished reading the letter, she sensed the presence of another standing by her side. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the shadowy form of the girl, her hand reaching out towards the papers that lay atop the chest of drawers. Glancing down, Penny watched as a postcard-sized portrait slowly slid free from the pile; the face of a young man staring back at her from a faded photograph.

  As she looked at this picture, Penelope felt a frisson of recognition. It was the face of the filmmaker – Edward Gold – pictured here in younger days. A pencil moustache was perched on top of his upper lip, his youthful features pinched into a nervous smile.

  Shaking her head, Penny started to turn towards the shadow by her side; countless questions swirling around her mind. But before she had the chance to speak, she heard the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor outside. Penelope hurriedly swept the pile of papers back into the drawer, sliding it shut as the door handle rattled behind her.

  In the candlelight, she saw the face of Edward Gold, his lined features set in a suspicious frown.

  “What on earth are you doing in here?”

  Penny glanced back towards her shadow in search of a reply, but the girl was gone. She turned to face Gold, the filmmaker’s face darkening as his gaze took in the framed portrait set on the dresser behind her. Somehow he was caught up in the secrets that had been hidden there, and Penelope instinctively knew that she couldn’t risk telling him the truth.

  “I’m so sorry,” she replied, stifling a yawn as she reached up to rub her eyes. “I think I must have been sleepwalking.”

  XVI

  Penelope sheltered in the lee of the stone, the tall grey boulder providing her with some welcome respite from the wind that whipped across the moor. Above her head, the sky was a darkening slate, clouds creeping across the horizon and veiling the russet slopes of the valley that lay before her from view. A growing chill was in the air as evening slipped towards night.

  Behind her, there came the sound of a curse. Gold was hunched over the Véritéscope once again. The three feet of its tripod were hidden in the undergrowth, sunk beneath the bracken and brambles that carpeted this lonely part of the moor. With a furrowed brow, Gold was peering inside the machine, trying to work out which element in its mysterious workings was responsible for this latest delay.

  Penelope leaned back against the boulder, taking this moment’s break to try to make sense of the strange events that had brought her to this place. A soft mist was starting to descend from the clouds, dimming the rays of the already sinking sun. If Gold wasn’t able to get the camera working quickly, there would soon be no light left to film by. Beyond the mists lay the gothic silhouette of Eversholt Manor, its towers and turrets marking the spot where that day’s filming had begun.

  Dressed in Vivienne’s cast-off costume, Penny had stood in the study, nerves coiling in the pit of her stomach as Gold turned the camera towards her. Then, pressing his eye to its viewfinder, he had uttered the word that had changed everything.

  “Action!”

  As the film rolled, Penelope had felt a strange sensation crawl across her skin, the same unearthly feeling that she had felt last night as the shadowy girl appeared by her side. As she began to speak the lines of the script, she heard the whisper of the same words breathed in her ear.

  “My name is Amelia Eversholt and this is my story – a tragic tale of murder, betrayal and revenge.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the pale features of the girl, hanging in the air like mist, and the words dried on Penelope’s lips. She stared into the Véritéscope lens in mute appeal. Couldn’t Gold see her too? As her silence filled the room, the filmmaker raised his eye from the viewfinder and fixed Penny with an exasperated glare.

  “Cut!”

  As quickly as she had come, the shadow was gone, leaving Penny shaking her head in puzzlement as the camera whirr faded into silence. But there had been no time to try and make sense of any of this as Gold thrust the pages of the script into her hand.

  “Try to get it right, Miss Tredwell,” he snapped. “Perhaps if you slept more soundly at night then you wouldn’t forget your lines.”

  With that, he hurried back to the camera, waiting impatiently for Penny to compose herself before he turned its winding handle again. In a daze, Penelope had stumbled through the script, the scene passing by in a blur before Gold swept her on to the next. From the manor house to the mine itself, Penelope had stepped through the pages of the story, sensing the shadowy presence by her side growing stronger with every word that she said. Now as darkness crept across the valley, the final scene left to be filmed today was Amelia’s desperate attempt to escape from her father’s clutches, fleeing from the manor house and out across the moor.

  Penelope shivered. Something about this story haunted her, more so than when she had first shaped its plot for the pages of The Penny Dreadful. It was no longer Montgomery Flinch’s tale; Gold’s changes to the script meant that it now belonged to Amelia Eversholt. But who exactly was she?

  “Miss Tredwell!”

  Gold’s voice cut through the gloom, the last glimmers of sunlight fading fast. Peering around the edge of the stone, Penny saw the filmmaker standing over the Véritéscope, his hand poised on the winder.

  “Move to your mark,” he barked, unable to hide his impatience. “This is the final shot of the day.”

  With her cheeks colouring at his effrontery, Penelope followed Gold’s order, tramping across the bracken until she reached the path that wound across the moor. Turning back to face the camera, she squinted into shadows, the creeping mists now hiding even Gold himself from sight, but his voice still came to her on the wind.

  “Action!”

  At the sound of this word, an icy shiver ran down her spine as, from the shadows, the ghostly figure of the girl emerged. She seemed more real now than when Penny had last glimpsed her, whirls of mist clinging to her clothes as she stepped along the path. The last gleam of sunset was fading from the sky, leaving the two of them alone with the night.

  “Who are you?” Penelope asked, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice.

  The girl lifted her head to fix Penny with a plaintive stare, a glittering darkness shining in her eyes.

  “Amelia,” she replied.

  A sudden fear filled Penelope’s veins, her only instinct a desperate desire to flee from this phantom conjured from the pages of her story. Gathering up her skirts, Penny blundered past the ghost girl, scrambling down the path as the fog enveloped her like a shroud. Suddenly lost in a world of shadows, she felt clammy fingers of mist pluck at her sk
in. Stumbling over tussocks of heather and gorse, she tried to keep to the path, but her foot snagged against a tree root, pitching her forward into the darkness.

  Flinging out her arms to save herself, Penny felt her hands sink into soft heather, brambles scratching at her skin as she rolled down a quickening slope. She cried out in alarm, her momentum sending her pitching forward until she sprawled in a heap at the bottom of the bank.

  For a moment, she lay there dazed, staring up into the shadows and seeing only stars. Then, through the gloom, she saw a faint glimmer of light moving to and fro, the shadow of a boy walking along the treacherous path, a shimmering lantern held in his hand. Penny opened her mouth to call out for help, but then the words dried on her lips as she saw the ghostly figure of the girl step forward to greet him.

  As he reached her, the boy lifted his lantern, its light falling across his features to reveal the face of the young actor, James Denham. His pale blue eyes shone with concern.

  “Are you lost, miss?” he asked.

  From the shadows, Penelope watched as Amelia’s ghost nodded her head, her figure almost translucent as the light from his lantern threw a protective circle around them both.

  “I’ve been lost for such a long time,” she replied, a faint tremor in her voice as James recoiled in fear. “I can only thank the Lord that you found me.”

  As she lay slumped at the bottom of the bank, Penny felt a dizzy lightness steal into her mind, the peculiar sensation growing stronger with every word that the girl spoke.

  “These moors are dangerous, miss.” James stuttered out his line, scarcely able to believe his eyes. “You should be back at Eversholt Manor.”

  The ghost girl nodded, the pale beauty of her features almost worn through by the light.

  “Take me home,” she told him.

  The young actor blanched beneath the lantern light. There was fear in his eyes as her wraithlike hand stole towards his own. Then from across the moor came a harsh snapping sound, like a spring or a coil breaking, and with a cry that quickly faded into a sigh, Amelia melted into the mist, disappearing completely.

  For a moment, James stood there frozen, staring into the shadows where Amelia had stood; then the young actor jumped in alarm as out of the darkness, Penny rose unsteadily to her feet. He glanced down at the muddied ruin of her dress, her dark hair dishevelled from the effects of the fall. The two of them stared at each other, but before either could speak, Gold marched from his vantage point nearby on the moor, his face flushed with excitement.

  “That was the best one yet,” he told them, his eyes shining brightly in the lantern light. “If only the camera hadn’t broken down…” His eyes swept from James to where Penelope was standing in the shadows. Taking in her piteous state with a frown, Gold narrowed his gaze. “We must try again tomorrow.”

  XVII

  “Playing the part of this monster is driving me to distraction!”

  His face flushed with concern, Monty leaned forward across the dining-room table and jabbed his fork into an open dish. Brandishing the speared sausage like a blubbery finger, he pointed it at Penny with a flourish.

  “This blasted story of yours will be the end of me, Penelope. I swear that Lord Eversholt’s villainy is poisoning my mind. I’ve not felt this way since I understudied Macbeth at the Garrick, back in eighteen ninety-five.”

  Grease dripped from the undercooked sausage, staining the linen tablecloth below, before Monty stuffed it into his mouth with an angry grunt.

  From the other side of the table, Penny glanced up at the actor, the dark rings beneath her pale green eyes telling the story of her own anxiety. The breakfast plate in front of her lay untouched, a solitary piece of toast left forgotten on the side. After a sleepless night, her mind was still filled with thoughts of the girl who had haunted the evening’s filming: Amelia’s shadow finally stepping into the light.

  “So what are we going to do?” Monty demanded, shards of half-eaten sausage spluttering from his mouth as he stared at her expectantly.

  Penny’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

  “Do about what?” she asked.

  Now it was Monty’s turn to frown.

  “About getting out of this ghastly place!” he exclaimed. “We must convince Mr Gold to shelve his plans for this moving-picture show and return to London without delay. I promise that I will throw myself into the role of Montgomery Flinch once more – anything to escape from this shadow that plagues me.”

  Penny stared back at Monty in surprise, torn between her own misgivings and her desire to solve the mystery that lay here.

  “But the contract has been signed,” she began. “The Penny Dreadful has promised Mr Gold that he alone can make the picture show of this tale. We can’t just leave.”

  Monty scowled.

  “You would say that,” he snapped. “Especially seeing as how Gold has seen fit to make you the star of this production. I hadn’t been aware before now, Penelope, that your ambitions lay in the direction of the stage. In fact your guardian, Mr Wigram, has always made it quite plain to me that he prefers you to stay out of the limelight.” Monty rose to his feet and fixed Penny with a sharp-eyed stare. “I wonder what he would say if he knew of your starring role?”

  Penelope paled. She knew exactly what her guardian would say. Mr Wigram had always impressed upon her the risk of her real identity being discovered if she stepped too close to the flame of Montgomery Flinch’s fame. The idea that a mere girl could write the masterful tales of terror that graced the pages of The Penny Dreadful would be too much for the critics to bear. Montgomery Flinch’s continued success depended on this secrecy.

  She pressed a hand to her temple as a strange, woozy sensation swam into her mind. Gazing down at the polished silver of her breakfast plate, Penny saw the pale reflection of Amelia Eversholt staring back at her, a shadow creeping across her brow.

  As quickly as it had come the reflection disappeared, almost as if she had imagined it. Shaking her head as the dizziness passed, Penny looked up to meet Monty’s gaze with a pensive stare.

  “We have to stay,” she told him.

  The colour drained from Monty’s face. For a second, he stood there in silence, swallowing hard as he considered his response. Then, with a theatrical gesture of surrender, he threw up his arms in dismay.

  “Fine,” he snapped, turning away from the table to leave. “If you need me, I’ll be in my bedchamber studying the script.” Monty flounced from the room, the angry stomp of his footsteps echoing through the manor house.

  A sudden feeling of weariness came over Penelope. Trying to clear her mind, she fixed her gaze on the moors that lay beyond the large bay window, taking solace in the picturesque scene. Beneath a cloudless sky, the rugged hills looked almost benign, a far cry from the treacherous heath she had braved last night. Even the ugly blight of the abandoned mine, its crumbling buildings nestled in the crook of the valley, seemed somehow softened by the sunlight.

  As Penny stared in the direction of the distant pithead, she heard the soft whisper of a voice in her ear.

  I’ve been lost for such a long time…

  Spinning around in her seat, Penny searched in vain for the source of the voice, but only faint shadows lurked at the edge of the room. She buried her head in her hands, her fingers trembling as the faint murmuring started again.

  But now I’m coming home…

  Penny pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to quieten the voice in her mind. When she crafted her tales for the pages of The Penny Dreadful she was used to conjuring up characters, hearing their voices inside her head as she directed their actions, but this insistent whisper made her feel like she was being possessed.

  “Are you all right?”

  The sound of another voice caused Penny to glance up in surprise, the whispering suddenly silenced. She saw the face of a boy not much older than herself, his black hair neatly slicked into a side parting, whilst his features were composed into an expression of the upmost co
ncern.

  For a moment, Penelope couldn’t place the boy’s face, unused to seeing it without its customary layer of grime. Then as he walked towards her, the realisation struck as she stared up into James’s kindly eyes.

  “I’m fine,” she replied, sweeping a stray lock of hair from her face with a fretful gesture. “Just a little tired perhaps from the strain of all this filming.”

  The young actor held Penny’s gaze, seemingly unconvinced by her reply. She noticed for the first time the dark circles beneath his pale blue eyes, his features marked by the same haunted expression that troubled her own.

  “Can you see them too?” he asked her, keeping his voice low as if fearful of being overheard. “The shadows that infest this place?”

  XVIII

  “I cannot escape them; they haunt me wherever I turn.”

  Beneath his furrowed brow, James’s face seemed worn beyond his years, weariness etched into his features. Penelope gazed up at the young actor as she listened to him pour out his concerns. He had told her how the ghosts of The Daughter of Darkness now stalked his every scene, apparitions of Lord Eversholt and Amelia herself appearing from the shadows, even as the actors spoke their words aloud.

  “Tell me,” James asked, meeting Penny’s gaze with an anxious stare, “do you think I am going mad?”

  She slowly shook her head. If James was mad, then she was as well, both of them plagued by the shadows that haunted this place. Some greater mystery lurked within these walls and she needed to find out what it was.

  “No,” Penelope replied, “I don’t think that.”