The Haunting

by Lindsey Duga

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The wrought iron bars of the fence surrounding Evanshire’s Home for Neglected Girls were slick with that evening’s rain, and chilled by the fog. Even so, Emily wrapped her hands tightly around them, ignoring the cold wetness, and let out a soft whistle through her teeth.

  She waited patiently, as she did every night, for her best friend. But she didn’t have to wait long. Almost immediately, a four-legged creature trotted forward in the gloom, its existence made visible only by the dim gas streetlamps above. It emerged from behind a tower of old shipping crates, looking more like a shadowy monster from another world than a slender canine from the streets of London.

  As the dog approached the fence, Emily could tell her friend Archie had gotten into even more trouble that day than yesterday, or the day before that. His fine brown-and-white coat was muddy, and his white paws were covered in black soot, as if he’d decided to crawl his way through the inside of a chimney like Simon, the tall, balding chimney sweep who came to the orphanage every month.

  Emily held out her fingers through the bars and Archie licked them eagerly, his tongue lingering on her sore red knuckles as though he somehow knew the injury was for his benefit. How he knew, Emily had no idea. Dogs were just smart that way.

  Because the rapping on Emily’s knuckles had been for Archie’s sake. At supper, she’d swiped a small piece of meat pie off her own plate, and while she managed to hide it in the pocket of her smock, Miss Evanshire saw the trail of crumbs across the table and assumed—rightly—that Emily was to blame for the mess. Miss Evanshire had rapped Emily’s knuckles with her cane and warned the girl that rats could be sent into her bed once they’d had enough of her crumbs.

  But rats didn’t scare Emily; the thought of not being able to see Archie did.

  He whined and sniffed the girl’s wrists while she scratched behind his ears. “Shhh, boy, quiet now.” With her other hand she pulled out the smooshed meat pie and held it out through the bars. “Eat up, I’ve got to get to bed before someone notices I’m gone,” she whispered, more to herself than to Archie, as he always had a habit of scarfing down his meal instead of savoring every bite.

  Sure enough, the English pointer mutt finished his dinner in two gulps, hardly chewing the mushy, soft pastry. Emily bent down, her face pressed against the bars, arms threaded through them, and hugged her friend around his ashen neck. Her smock was dirty enough that no one would question the soot stains later.

  How Emily wished she could give Archie a real hug and play fetch, but she hadn’t been able to do that for a year now. Not since he’d gotten too big to easily pass through the fence, and Emily had to make sure that he wasn’t inside the grounds of Evanshire, lest he be caught by one of the caretakers—or worse, the old witch herself. So she’d let him out through the fence one day, knowing that, as dangerous as the streets of London were, at least out there he had a chance, while under Miss Evanshire’s nose he would surely be sent to the pound.

  Like Emily, Archie had no parents. He had been abandoned, just as she had. Except she’d found him in a shipping crate one day when she’d passed the docks on the way back from mass, whereas a constable had discovered a newborn Emily under a bench in Regent’s Park. Emily had taken the shivering, tiny puppy and hid him in her coat. By some miracle she had managed to keep him hidden until he’d gotten too big for the attic, then too big to slip through the fence.

  But even after she’d taken Archie outside the gate, he hadn’t abandoned her. He came back every night, even when there was no food to share several evenings in a row.

  Archie did his best to lick away any final crumbs on her hands, his slippery pink tongue darting between her fingers to grab every last morsel.

  “Good boy,” she murmured softly, stroking his neck and looping around to scratch under his chin. Archie’s soft brown eyes grew sleepy and content as he enjoyed her touch, until Emily finally had to pull away. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she told him, as she did every night.

  Reluctantly, and with one final look at the dog she’d raised since he was a little pup, Emily ducked under the hedges and crawled through the bushes of rhododendrons, their strong scent tickling her nose. Praying she wouldn’t sneeze, Emily scrambled to her feet and stuck to the shadowy corners of the grounds until she came to the back door. It was ajar and creaked loudly on its rusty hinges. She was confident, though, that no one would hear.

  It was just before curfew, around the time when the groundskeeper, Mr. Duford, would be having a “special drink,” as he liked to call it, in the scullery. Emily didn’t say anything about his drink and he didn’t say a word about her using the back door so late. It was an unspoken mutual understanding between them.

  She took the stairs two at a time and hurried down the hall, avoiding the floorboards that made the most noise, and finally slipped into the dormitory that she shared with five other girls.

  “You’re in trouble,” came a singsong voice from the farthest bed, next to the window.

  Emily shut the door behind her, nerves spiking as she whirled around and found her second least favorite person sitting on her bed. Lying on her stomach, feet in the air, Agatha wore a smug smile on her face.

  “Get off my bed,” Emily snapped.

  “Miss Evanshire already came for the head count, and you weren’t in your bed.”

  Emily’s stomach shriveled and dropped like a stone. “But … she’s early!” Emily protested, as if this fact alone were reason enough that she shouldn’t be punished for being out of bed at night.

  Agatha raised her eyebrow at the stupidity of the declaration, knowing as well as Emily—and as well as any other girl at the orphanage—that this meant absolutely nothing. “She said she didn’t care if you were eaten by rats or taken away by Spring-Heeled Jack,” Agatha said, her lips curling into an even bigger, crueler smile.

  Emily recoiled at the mention of the slender half devil, half man who was said to roam the streets of London frightening innocent young woman. The very idea of being anywhere near the awful creature with red eyes, who could leap over nine-foot-tall fences, was utterly terrifying.

  Miss Evanshire’s heartlessness, on the other hand, wasn’t at all surprising. Out of all the girls, Emily was the one who the old woman hated most—she was sure of it.

  Little Mary, one of the youngest girls, sidled up to Emily, tugging on Emily’s sleeve. “She came early to tell us a couple would be coming tomorrow,” Mary informed, her green eyes wide and bright. “She said they want to adopt a girl as soon as possible!”

  Emily wanted to be as excited and as hopeful as Mary, but she’d long since stopped hoping or dreaming of being adopted. After twelve years in the orphanage, watching couples come and go, taking the prettiest girls with soft curls and big blue eyes, Emily had simply stopped expecting a different, more beautiful life. She knew her future lay in a workhouse. In only a couple short years, she’d leave her little bed in this dank dormitory for an even worse bed in an even drearier room. Bruises, burns, and an empty belly would be her only proof of a long and endless day of work. In fact, her imagination would be all she’d have to keep her mind from going loopy from exhaustion and a never-ending ache in her bones.

  But Emily refused to instill in the younger, newer girl
s the same sense of hopelessness she had, or the same acceptance. So she smiled and placed her hand on Mary’s strawberry-blond hair. “That’s so exciting.”

  Agatha gave a very unladylike snort and hopped off Emily’s bed. “Don’t be daft. They’ll do what every couple does. Come to look at us, compare us, throw around fancy words, then leave. Same as always.”

  Mary’s gaze dropped to the floor, the light in her eyes vanishing like the flame on a candlewick.

  “Don’t worry, tomorrow will be different,” Emily whispered in Mary’s ear. “I can feel it.”

  Mary gave Emily a happy, shining, hopeful smile, and Emily tried to return it as best as she could, even though the lie twisted, painful and sharp, in her chest.

  The next morning Emily was instructed to go without breakfast—or rather, she was forced. It wasn’t anything new, to miss a meal, but having given away a portion of her dinner to Archie the night before, she felt hungrier than usual. But hunger was a thing she was well acquainted with.

  The girls were given two bars of soap to share among them to wash up and get ready for the couple, who were on their way. Miss Evanshire seemed especially on edge. She paced the halls like a royal guard, stiff and stern, with the power to make any poor soul suffer if even a pinkie toe was stepped out of line. It was also clear she had done her best to impress her guests as well. The woman had even gone so far as to fasten an old brooch to her satin burgundy dress with the high lace collar. Her gray hair was smoothed back in a tight bun, and a bit of rouge had been applied to her lips.

  In Emily’s opinion, it was a bit like trying to dress up a walking skeleton. Not only was it pointless, it was a little scary, too.

  With Miss Evanshire’s prodding, the girls were lined up by age and marched down the old—but recently shined—wooden steps toward the parlor. They passed portraits of Miss Evanshire’s uncle, the man who had started the orphanage and whose sour disposition had been passed down to his niece and increased tenfold. Everything in the house was old, but cleaned, buffed, and scrubbed, by its young female residents, until it looked like it had been bought yesterday.

  “Mary, smooth out your dress,” Miss Evanshire barked as soon as they had formed a line in front of the parlor’s deep red chintz sofa. “Alice, wash your face again, you look a fright!” When she came to the end of the line, right in front of Emily, she sneered hatefully. “Don’t forget to smile, you ungrateful child. You are lucky to get even this chance before your miserable fate is sealed.” She batted her cane against Emily’s shin, but Emily didn’t wince. She didn’t like giving Miss Evanshire the satisfaction.

  As soon as the old hag’s back was turned, Emily stuck out her tongue. Mary, who happened to catch Emily’s small act of rebellion, gave her a small, appreciative smile just as a knock sounded at the door. The girls at once began to whisper hurriedly, all of them fidgeting in their best dresses.

  All except Emily.

  Emily wasn’t nervous, because she knew how this would end: The couple would take one look at her dark hair, rough hands, freckles, and brown eyes, and see a girl unsuited for teatime and fancy dresses.

  Voices drifted in from the hallway. A deep baritone and a gentle, melodic voice mingled with Miss Evanshire’s annoying croak.

  “I think you’ll find we have the best-behaved young girls in all of London, Mr. and Mrs. Thornton,” Miss Evanshire said loudly in a sickeningly sweet croon, the footsteps coming down the hall toward the parlor, where the eighteen girls awaited nervously.

  Emily resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She had to be on her best behavior. She didn’t want to miss tea as well.

  The couple who walked in were perfect representations of the voices from the entrance hall. A petite blond woman in an olive-green satin gown, tight sleeves accentuating her small, delicate shoulders, walked arm-in-arm with a tall man who had dark hair and a thick mustache, sporting a handsome deep blue suit.

  They were absolutely lovely.

  In all her time at Evanshire’s Home for Neglected Girls, Emily had never seen a more charming, perfect couple. She could see how rich they were, too. While their posture, their aura, and even their scent reeked of high society, they wore evidence of it as well. Mrs. Thornton’s shiny jeweled rings and bracelets. Mr. Thornton’s ivory cane and silver chain from a pocket watch hidden within the folds of his smartly tailored suit.

  They were too good—too perfect—to be true.

  Mrs. Thornton was the first to look at the girls, her eyes going from orphan to orphan down the line—until they stopped abruptly at Emily.

  Emily dropped her gaze, her cheeks warming. She’d been staring, rather rudely, at Mrs. Thornton, admiring her dress and soft gold curls. But so were the other girls, Emily was sure of it.

  “Now, Mr. and Mrs. Thornton, you neglected to mention what age you were looking for, so they are lined up from youngest to oldest, starting from the left. Each girl can read, write, and do arithmetic. They are also taught embroidery and piano and—”

  “Robert,” Mrs. Thornton’s voice cut through Miss Evanshire’s rehearsed speech, as the lady’s olive-green skirts swished into Emily’s view. “This one.”

  Eyes widening, Emily peeked from under her dark bangs to see Mrs. Thornton staring down at her, jaw clenched and cheeks pale under a layer of rose-colored powder. The way Mrs. Thornton clutched the pendant on her necklace so hard her knuckles turned white drew Emily’s attention to its odd shape. It was long and silver, quite unlike any jewel or ornament Emily had seen before.

  In moments, Mr. Thornton joined Mrs. Thornton, and Emily found herself being inspected like a piece of meat at a butcher shop, or perhaps the Queen’s crown jewels.

  “What is your name, dear?” Mrs. Thornton asked, looking down at the girl before her.

  “E-Emily,” she stuttered.

  Emily’s palms broke out in a cold sweat, and she clenched her fists. She chose to keep her attention on the couple’s shoes rather than their eyes, which seemed to be targeting each of her flaws.

  Soft, gloved fingertips lightly tapped under Emily’s chin, pulling her face upward and forcing her to stare into Mrs. Thornton’s blue eyes.

  “Emily, yes …” Mrs. Thornton said, her gaze softening ever so subtly, but her look remaining rather … intense. “She’s perfect. Don’t you think, dear?”

  Never in her life had Emily been referred to as perfect. Clearly Mrs. Thornton needed spectacles.

  Mr. Thornton nodded. “Yes, darling.”

  Emily tore her eyes away from Mrs. Thornton and looked beyond the couple to see Miss Evanshire gaping at them. If Emily hadn’t been as shocked as the old witch, then she would’ve taken the opportunity to stick her tongue out at her then, too.

  Did this mean … after all this time … was she really getting adopted?

  As if on cue, Mr. Thornton whirled around to Miss Evanshire. “Well, what needs to be drawn up? Does she have any belongings that need to be packed up and taken to the carriage?”

  “I … well … she …” Miss Evanshire moved her mouth up and down a few times but no words came out. Finally, she sighed and waved her cane toward the study. “This way, please. If you are certain that you want that child”—she layered the disgust onto her words like strawberry jam on an almond scone—“then there is paperwork to be signed.”

  With a gentle nod at their future adopted daughter, the Thorntons followed Miss Evanshire out of the parlor.

  As soon as the adults were gone, the girls broke out into excited whispers while Emily merely stood there in a daze, unsure of what had just happened. Surrounding Emily, they all began congratulating her—all except one.

  A hand seized Emily’s arm above the elbow, nails digging into her skin. The force of Agatha’s grip made Emily wince, and she tried to shake the girl off. “Let go.”

  “Don’t act so conceited,” Agatha hissed. “Remember what you’d be leaving behind if you go.”

  “A lumpy bed, meager meals, a cranky old lady, and a spoiled brat,” E
mily retorted quickly, her temper rising. Agatha hadn’t been at Miss Evanshire’s for very long—only a year or so—but she was older and not likely to get adopted. Agatha had been born into a life of privilege until tax collectors had come for her parents. She saw herself as better than everyone. Certainly better than Emily, who’d never known anything but loneliness, hard work, and misfortune.

  Agatha sneered, her pale eyes flashing with evil glee. “Don’t forget a skinny, dirty mutt.”

  Emily froze, the blood running cold in her veins as the weight of Agatha’s veiled threat fell on her.

  Adult voices once again drifted through the hallway.

  “What do you think will happen to your precious doggy once you go away? Miss Evanshire will have him sent to the pound as soon as she sees him outside waiting for you.” Agatha spoke low and fast as the footsteps neared.

  All this time Agatha had known about Archie but kept it to herself—kept it, no doubt, for a moment just like this.

  Emily was speechless as Agatha continued to smirk, clearly happy to inflict one more emotional blow before Emily left for a better, brighter life. But now she couldn’t. Maybe that’s why Agatha said it—because she knew what Emily’s response would be.

  All too quickly, the three adults returned and Mrs. Thornton made a beeline to Emily, taking the girl’s chilled hand in her gloved ones. “Come, dear. Time to go to your new home.”

  All her life, Emily had dreamed of those words, and each time she imagined it, she had never said what she was about to say.

  “No.”

  Mrs. Thornton blinked down at Emily. All the girls froze, their lips parting in surprise, while Miss Evanshire stared at her in utter horror and Mr. Thornton looked mildly annoyed.

  “I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Thornton asked.

  “No, I don’t—I’m not going.” Her voice trembled at the words, shaky with the threat of tears that were bound to fall from being forced to make this awful choice.

  Because she couldn’t abandon Archie. She just couldn’t. He was her friend. Her confidant. Her puppy. Not for the possibility of more food, open spaces in the country air, or a better home with a better family. She couldn’t abandon him because he had never abandoned her.