Bedfellow

by Jeremy C. Shipp

  The old woman sighs. “A very sweet girl. Very bright.”

  “In the letter Mr. Evers sent me, he mentioned there was an accident?”

  “Yes.” Robin rubs her hands together. “Mrs. Evers will explain. I shouldn’t say any more before Mrs. Evers explains. What I can tell you, miss, is that you need to go into this with an open mind. But I shouldn’t say any more. I’ll return with your dinner soon, miss. Do you have any allergies?”

  “Dairy. And you can call me Danna, if you’d like.”

  “Danna. That’s a lovely name, miss. Danna.”

  Robin vanishes, and I finally scratch the back of my hand. A rash in the shape of a dog inflames my skin. When I was a girl, my father told me that God chattered constantly to mankind in the form of omens. What would my father see in this dog on my hand? I laugh a little, and lie on what could be a silk charmeuse blanket. After kicking off my shoes, I turn to the headless figures of stained glass on the west wall. Men, women, children. They’re staggering, crawling through a desert of blackened trees and jagged stones. Some of the figures hold a skull in their hands. Maybe their own.

  I roll over and face the enormous television. Before I can even turn on the TV, I drift into a white room without any windows or doors. I get the feeling that I’ve been here many times before. Dozens of fluorescent bulbs intersect on the ceiling, forming a labyrinth of light. Malformed beetles creep and buzz inside the bulbs. I can see their silhouettes through the thin glass.

  A voice whispers from under a mound of white blankets on the hospital bed.

  “What are you saying?” I ask.

  “Fiend,” the voice says. “Fiend.”

  “I don’t know what you want.”

  A small gray hand slides out from under the blankets. I sit on the bed and hold the icy, withered flesh. Only now do I notice the holes in the walls. There are eyes everywhere, peeking at us, never blinking.

  “Go away,” I say.

  “Fiend,” the voice says, quivering.

  When I bring the hand closer to me, I discover that the flesh ends at the wrist. Quickly, I search the mound of blankets, but I can’t find the rest of him.

  I open my mouth to ask, “Where are you?” But I can’t get my lips to part.

  The fluorescent bulbs flicker. The beetles hiss.

  I stand, holding the severed hand close to my chest. I’d like to leave, but there are shards of glass glittering on the linoleum, and I still can’t find any sign of a door. The eyes in the wall blink faster and faster. The little hand holds me tight.

  The next moment, I’m lying on a silk blanket, with a tray of roast beef and asparagus salad on the table beside me. I sit up and inspect my body. Olive cardigan, navy skirt, braided belt. This is a real outfit of mine. I must be awake.

  Yes, there’s the stained-glass window. There’s the eighty-four-inch, high-definition television.

  I haven’t had such a vivid hospital dream for months now.

  It’s still dark out, so I turn on the white pansy Tiffany-style lamp near my bed.

  The roast beef is cold, but I don’t mind. At this point, I would wolf down a shrimp cocktail or two, and shrimp taste like salty rubber bands.

  I accidentally bite down on my fork when something or someone slams against the door of my room.

  “Hello?” I say, getting out of bed.

  The door handle moves up and down, slowly.

  “Who’s there?”

  As soon as I approach the door, the brass handle stops moving and I hear a high-pitched giggle coming from outside the door. The laughter sounds artificial, like a cartoon character’s. I look down and I’m still wearing the olive cardigan, navy skirt, braided belt.

  I reach out and open the door.

  Looking left and right, I can’t see anyone except for the cadaverous, winged figures hovering in the paintings. The closest figure seems to be looking right at me. A thick, pink maggot dangles from his lipless mouth.

  I glance around again. “Isabella? Isabella, are you here? I need to talk with you.”

  No one responds.

  Despite the breakneck pounding of my heart, I know on a conscious level that I’m not in any real danger. Isabella is playing some kind of game with me. She’s only a little girl.

  Back in my room, I decide to put on my pajamas, and I discover that my luggage trolley is empty. Did Isabella sneak in while I was asleep and . . . ? No. Just because Isabella knocked on my door doesn’t mean she would take my possessions.

  After taking a deep breath, I approach the mahogany dresser adorned with squares of stained-glass roses. Inside, I find my clothing folded neatly away. Robin must have done this after bringing in my dinner.

  I dress in my cat pajamas, worried that I won’t be able to fall back asleep. But as soon as I cocoon myself under the covers, I return to the hospital, searching for Bruno and finding only pieces.

  * * *

  In the morning, I follow Robin up a spiral staircase with human faces carved into the stone walls. Robin reminds me again that the servants’ hall is well furnished and impeccably decorated.

  “Mr. Evers surprised us with a pool table about six months ago,” Robin says. “It’s regulation size with hand-sewn leather pockets. The oak was salvaged from nineteenth-century tobacco barns. In truth, miss, I’m not positive what a tobacco barn is, but it is nice having a piece of history in our little room.”

  “That sounds nice,” I say.

  The faces in the wall become increasingly malformed and contorted the higher we step. A man’s eyes look in different directions while his lips push out farther than humanly possible. A child’s bottom teeth grow upward like tusks, covering his eyes. A woman’s enormous nose bends and enters one of her eye sockets.

  At last, we come to the servants’ hall, and as Robin promised, the place is not dreary in the least. Impressionist floral paintings cover the pale blue walls. Natural light spills in from four towering bow windows. The room is crowded with red oak chairs, a red oak dining table, and of course the tobacco-barn pool table.

  “This is Raul,” Robin says. “Raul, come say hello to Miss Danna.”

  Raul turns away from the pool table and gives me a little smile. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves. My eyes wander for a moment to the foot-long knife on his belt.

  “Hello,” he says, shaking my hand. His skin feels calloused and cracked.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say.

  “You, too.”

  Raul returns to the pool table, and Robin sighs. “That man,” she says. “Always the talkative one. You’ll hear longer stories from the paintings on the walls.”

  I think of the gaunt figure outside my bedroom door, with bulging yellow eyes and crooked teeth.

  At the dining table, Robin serves us a breakfast of eggs royale and fresh strawberries. “I made a dairy-free hollandaise for you, miss. Can’t say it tastes exactly the same as the traditional sauce, but it isn’t an unpleasant commingling of flavors. If you don’t like the hollandaise, you can be honest with me. I won’t take offense.”

  I swallow a bite. “It’s delicious. Thank you, Robin.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that, miss.”

  For a while, Robin studies my face in silence. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, miss. But it looks as if you had some trouble sleeping last night? Not that you appear anything less than elegant. It’s only, you seem as if sleep eluded you.”

  “This house will do that to you,” Raul says, joining us at the table.

  Robin nods. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, miss, but there are a number of unsightly paintings and things in Stockton House. If you’re susceptible, these images can work their way into your subconscious and generate nightmares. What works for me, miss, is to watch a number of comedy programs on the television right before bed. If you’re unfamiliar with current television programs, I would be more than happy to recommend a number of very funny shows. They aren’t Shakespeare, miss, bu
t they will do the trick.”

  “I appreciate the concern,” I say. “I think I’ll be fine.”

  “Ah. Very good, miss.” Robin finally takes her first bite of food. “I hope you’ll let me know if you need any help during your stay. The house can spin you around and leave you dizzy, if you get my meaning, miss.”

  “There is something I was wondering about,” I say. “Someone banged on my door last night and laughed.”

  Raul glances at me. “That was probably—”

  “That’s not for us to say, Raul,” Robin says, pointing her fork in his direction. “We should let Mrs. Evers explain. Don’t you think that would be for the best?”

  “Yeah,” Raul says, with his mouth full of strawberries. “I suppose so.”

  I look at Raul and then Robin. Neither of them will meet my eyes. “I’m only wondering if Isabella does this sort of thing often.”

  “Mrs. Evers will explain,” Robin says. “I do hope the hollandaise sauce is to your liking, miss.”

  After breakfast, Robin leads me to a large room with ocean green walls and an old-fashioned chalkboard below a stained-glass window. The window depicts a hairless child standing at the top of an oak tree, raising his hands to the sun. Colossal bookshelves cover two of the four walls. A single tablet arm chair sits empty in the center of the room.

  Robin waves her tiny hand at one of the walls. “The room used to be red, but Mrs. Evers hopes the green will help promote a relaxed learning environment. I should have warned you earlier, miss, but Mrs. Evers prefers us not to wear red, orange, or yellow. A little here or there is fine, only Mrs. Evers worries about overstimulation and cognitive overload.”

  At this point, I notice that all the books with red, orange, or yellow spines are located high up on the bookshelves.

  “I’ll leave you here, miss. Mrs. Evers will be with you shortly. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.”

  “Thank you for being so helpful, Robin.”

  Robin’s lips twitch in a momentary smile. “No thanks necessary. It’s my job.”

  She speeds toward the door but freezes in the doorway. She turns around. “I do hope to see you for lunch, but if you’re already gone by then, I want you to know it was a pleasure meeting you, miss. You seem a kind sort of person.”

  With that, the old woman is gone.

  I sit at a Chippendale-style walnut desk in the front of the room. The rash on the back of my hand has devolved from a dog into an amoeba. While I’m waiting, I flip through the textbooks and workbooks stacked in front of me. One of the completed workbooks begins with small, neat handwriting, and by the end, the lettering is replaced with cryptic hieroglyphs, angular like broken glass. A maelstrom of doodles fill some of the pages. In the chaos, I make out a face impaled with nails and a severed arm holding tight to a branch.

  “Oh, good,” Mrs. Evers says. “You’re here.” The woman’s dressed in a muted blue cocoon dress, and she wears her dark hair in a loose braid over her shoulder. “I hope you’re not too upset about our little wallet test. I’m sure it was terribly unprofessional of us, but Hubert thought it would be for the best. He can be so overprotective when it comes to his family. We didn’t offend you too much?”

  “No,” I say, standing. “But if you have any further questions regarding my character, I do hope that you’ll speak to me directly.”

  “Oh, of course.” Mrs. Evers flows over and takes both my hands. “Thank you again for coming all this way. I’m sure you’ll do Isabella a world of good.”

  “I’m looking forward to working with her.”

  Mrs. Evers releases my hands. “I was hoping we could begin now, but I’m afraid Isabella is hiding. She does this from time to time. There are so many nooks and crannies in this house. It may take me some time to find her.”

  “Would you like me to help look for her?”

  “No, no.” Mrs. Evers waves away the thought. “Bell usually won’t come out unless I’m alone. I’ll go find her and you stay here and prepare.”

  Mrs. Evers turns around and flutters away. She leaves a scent of lavender in her wake.

  I remove a folder from my woven leather satchel, and I make sure that I have all the necessary assessment materials.

  At this point, I spend a few minutes writing out my initial impressions of the family and the staff. I know little about Isabella herself for the time being, except that she broke her great-grandfather’s urn and she banged on my door during the night. Is she sneaking off at any little opportunity, or is she being left unsupervised? As is sometimes the case with the affluent families I work for, Isabella might be feeling ignored by her parents. It’s clear to me that Mr. and Mrs. Evers care for their daughter, but do they spend any quality time with her?

  As these questions whirl around in my head, I draw the hairless, faceless woman from the trumeau. But I give her a face. I give her thin, pale lips with the weakest of smiles. Her eyes are dark and sunken.

  Minutes pass. An hour? Eventually, I take out my phone and look through the photos from my cousin Isaac. Today, he’s sent me a kitten in a Christmas sweater riding on the shell of a giant tortoise. He’s also sent me an American bulldog dressed up as the Hamburglar. It’s been about five years since Isaac started this tradition of texting me photos every morning, and he’s only missed a handful of days. I should find a way to thank him properly. But what else can I do? What else can I say?

  I message him another thank-you.

  Finally, Mrs. Evers returns, and there’s still no sign of Isabella.

  “I’m so sorry for making you wait,” Mrs. Evers says, stepping to the center of the room. “I finally found her inside a wardrobe in one of the guest rooms. Bell is a dear girl, but she does enjoy her little games, no matter the inconvenience they might impose on the rest of us.” She releases a frail, breathy laugh. “Bell, sit down. It’s time for your lessons.”

  I look to the doorway, but the girl doesn’t appear.

  Mrs. Evers faces the empty tablet arm chair beside her. “Bell, this is Ms. Valdez. Your new governess.”

  I look to the doorway again.

  Mrs. Evers squeezes the fingers of her left hand with her right hand. “You can’t see her, can you?”

  “What?” I say.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t. Most people can’t.” The woman looks down at her black wedge sandals. “You see, um. You see, Isabella passed away in February. It was an accident, and . . . I know what you must be thinking, Ms. Valdez. I know this is a peculiar sort of situation. But . . . but I assure you, Isabella is sitting right here in this chair. I can see her clear as day.” Mrs. Evers looks at me, and a beam of red light from the stained-glass window coats her face.

  At this moment, my face and chest feel warm. The room around me seems fragile, as if any sudden movement would cause the whole scene to shatter.

  “Mrs. Evers,” I say. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I . . . I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

  The woman squeezes one of her fingernails. “Please don’t leave us. Please. We’ve had two prospective governesses sitting at that desk, and as soon as they learned the truth, they left us.” Mrs. Evers trickles toward me and whispers, “Isabella isn’t coping well with this new phase of her existence. A few months ago, she started breaking things. At first it was only a lamp or a vase every few weeks, but things are . . . escalating. Hubert and I both agree that what our daughter needs is structure. She needs to feel normal again. Please stay, Ms. Valdez. At least for a little while?”

  “I don’t think I’m qualified to—”

  “All that we ask is that you give your lessons and speak to Bell as if she’s one of your regular students. Please.”

  For a few moments, I look into the woman’s dark, moist eyes.

  I don’t believe in ghosts, at least not the kind that would break vases or sit in a chair. But I know what it means to lose a child. Even if I can’t help Isabella, maybe I can provide some comfort for Mrs. Evers, or point her in the di
rection of a therapist? At the very least, I should take some time to think things through before abandoning this woman.

  “I can’t make you any promises,” I say. “But I’ll stay for now.”

  “Oh, good.” Mrs. Evers uses her finger to dab at a tear in the corner of her eye. “Ordinarily, Bell is unable to communicate in a traditional sense. Will this be a problem in regard to her education?”

  “I . . . No.”

  “I’m so happy to hear that. Well, I’m sure Bell doesn’t want her mother intruding in her classroom all day. I’ll leave you two to your work.”

  Mrs. Evers walks out the door. And I’m sitting at my new desk, facing the green lounge chair with the tablet arm. The leaf-shaped clock on the far wall taps away the seconds.

  What exactly am I doing here?

  I came to this house to escape empty rooms.

  Acknowledgments

  My undying gratitude goes to everyone on the Tor.com Publishing team who helped spawn this tome, including Lee Harris, Greg Ruth, Greg Manchess, and Christine Foltzer. A big, blinking, neon-green THANK-YOU to my loved ones for their continued support. In particular, as writer’s block and deadlines and other deadly foes loomed before me, my mom and Lisa swooped in and saved the day with their guidance and encouragement. And, of course, thanks to Bad Movie Club, for their hand in saturating and warping my brain with sublimely god-awful films. Marvin wouldn’t have been the same without you.

  About the Author

  Photograph by Jacob Shipp

  JEREMY C. SHIPP is the Bram Stoker Award–nominated author of Cursed, The Atrocities, and Vacation. His shorter tales have appeared in over seventy publications, including Cemetery Dance, ChiZine, and Pseudopod. Jeremy lives in Southern California in a moderately haunted Victorian farmhouse. His twitter handle is @JeremyCShipp.

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