Stephen

by Amy Cross

  “This is Mr. Tubbs,” she explained, keeping her eyes on the boy. “He's Stephen's absolute favorite toy in the whole world. You'll have to get to know Mr. Tubbs if you want to become Stephen's friend. They're practically inseparable. Why, the last person who tried to separate them was -”

  She stopped suddenly, and I thought I spotted a glimmer of discomfort in her eyes before she managed to force another smile.

  “They're such good pals,” she continued, and this time she brushed the bear against her son's face before turning to me. “Look how much his face lights up whenever Mr. Tubbs comes out. Doesn't he look happy? Doesn't he look like the happiest little boy in the whole world, Ms. Seaton? Listen to the way he giggles!”

  With that, she carefully turned and rested the toy against Stephen, taking a moment to prop it carefully before leaning back. She was still smiling, and in that moment I realized that she was not lying about hearing the child's laughs. She really, truly believed that Stephen was alive.

  “You're still all the way over there!” she pointed out incredulously, turning and waving at me. “Come and join us, Ms. Seaton. Don't be shy!”

  Although I desperately wanted to leave the room, I forced myself to step forward. I was feeling very queasy, but I kept telling myself over and over again that this situation was completely normal. Indeed, I had almost managed to convince myself of this fallacy as I reached the far side of the room, at which point I realized that Mrs. Brooks was watching me intently, almost as if she was trying to determine I felt anything was wrong. I swallowed hard, although I was beginning to detect the sour aroma once more, and I felt that my stomach might entirely turn at any moment.

  “Stephen's still a little shy around nannies,” Mrs. Brooks continued, grinning up at me from the floor. “You must forgive him, and don't take it personally. It's just that he had a bad experience once, and children do remember these things, you know.”

  “That...”

  Pausing, I realized that perhaps this was my chance to learn a little more. I knew I should not run away again, so I supposed that I had no choice. Despite the aroma, then, I knelt next to Mrs. Brooks. I felt as if a buried tremor was running through my entire body, fighting me as I forced myself to remain in the room. The smell was particularly intense, and I could not shake the feeling that I was inadvertently breathing in particles of the dead child. Stephen, of course, was just a few yards ahead of me, still propped against the dresser leg.

  “If I might ask,” I said cautiously. “what kind of bad experience did Stephen suffer, exactly?”

  At this, her face twitched slightly, and I could instantly see that she was troubled. I immediately felt as if I had sinned; after all, one should not poke one's nose into one's neighbor's business.

  “Sometimes it's best not to talk about the past,” she said finally. “One doesn't want to dwell on things that might have harmed one. I always think that it's better to put on one's best smile and move forward with one's life.” As if to prove that point, she grinned at me, but it was a most unconvincing attempt to seem happy. Indeed, all her smiles so far had ranged from desperate to forced, never seeming genuine. “That's what Stephen and I, and Daddy, are doing.”

  I glanced at the dead child. Although his skin was discolored, and although he was propped in a position that did not quite seem natural, I still could not shake the feeling that at any moment he might move slightly, that he might pop back to life.

  “Aren't we?” Mrs. Brooks said after a moment, reaching out and stroking him. “That's right, sweetheart.”

  A few strands of dead hair fell from the boy's head, but Mrs. Brooks did not respond to these at all. Indeed, it was as if she could not see them. As she continued to stroke him, I had cause to wonder many times what she did see as she talked to her dead child. I am quite certain that it was not what I saw, for all I saw was a small corpse that desperately needed to be buried.

  “What... What does Stephen like to do at this time of day?” I asked cautiously.

  I felt so very foolish, but at the same time I was trying to push back my natural reactions and do as Doctor Brooks had told me. I was trying to be obedient.

  “Oh, it depends,” Mrs. Brooks said wistfully, running her hand down onto the dead child's chest. “I'm afraid you might find that Stephen can be a very moody boy, Ms. Seaton. Why, you might find that he's laughing one moment and crying the next. I suppose that now you're here, I shall have to spend a little less time with him. That's what my husband wants, isn't it?”

  I waited for her to continue, but then I realized that she in fact was waiting for me to answer.

  “I'm sure I don't know,” I proferred.

  “You haven't spoken to him about me? Or about Stephen?”

  “A little.”

  “And what, pray, did he tell you?”

  “He told me that my job here is to assist you,” I explained. “Perhaps to take some of the burden from your shoulders.”

  “He did?” She stared at me for a moment, and I saw the faintest flicker of consternation in her gaze. “Well, that's Elliot all over. Always thinking about my needs. Always fussing and worrying. I shouldn't complain. After all, most women would give their eye teeth for a husband who cares so much.” She turned back to look at Stephen. “It's just that I've been spending all my time with him lately, ever since the last governess departed, and I shall have to get accustomed anew to relying on somebody. Still, Elliot is always right about these things, so I must trust him.”

  She ran the side of her finger down the child's dead face, and for a moment she seemed utterly sad. Then, all of a sudden, a smile returned to her features and this time it seemed to be a genuine smile.

  “Of course,” she continued, turning to me again with sprightly glee, “that doesn't mean we can't ease you in gently, does it? Elliot can't possibly begrudge us a little time together. Why don't you settle yourself in your room, and then we can all go for a wonderful walk around the garden? Like a family!”

  Chapter Six

  “Lord, give me strength and guidance, so that I might help these people. And give them strength and guidance too, for I fear that they have been too long without either.”

  Down on my knees in my bare little room, I kept my eyes tight shut as I tried to determine how I might conclude the prayer. I had only a few minutes before I was supposed to be back downstairs for the perambulation around the garden, but I was determined to snatch a prayer and – perhaps – to gain some favor for Mr. and Mrs. Brooks. And for little Stephen too, wherever he had gone.

  “I pray also for the soul of the child,” I whispered. “Guide him and love him, as only you can. Protect him. Nurture him. And release his parents from this terrible hold. Let Mrs. Brooks see the truth, so that she can move on with her life. These poor desperate people seem utterly neglected by reason. Allow your wisdom to shine down upon them, so that they might see again.”

  I hesitated, before opening my eyes. I knew I had to go and rejoin Mrs. Brooks, that this peace and quiet could not last, but at the last moment I noticed a bead of blood trickling down my left hand from a cut just below the knuckle. I had noticed no such cut occurring, yet the blood was absolutely right in front of me. I watched the bead for a few seconds longer, and then I drew my hand closer to my mouth. Then I licked the blood away, as I was wont to do at the convent. For a few seconds I thought of my discipline, and I confess that I wanted it badly.

  Telling myself that there would be time for all of that in the evening, I got to my feet. I had duties to perform.

  ***

  “I suppose you are wondering what on earth you have stumbled into,” Mrs. Brooks said a short while later as she pushed the baby carriage across the rough, frozen ground at the far end of the garden. “Why, I half feared that you would turn right around and leave us.”

  “I would never do that,” I told her.

  “No,” she continued, eyeing me with a faint smile, “I see that now. You are a very religious young lady, are you not?
With a strong sense of duty and some kind of moral conviction.”

  “Yes, M'am. I am.”

  “My husband mentioned that you studied at a convent.”

  “I did not study. I merely lived with the sisters for a while. I grew up there.”

  “What of your parents?”

  “Dead, M'am.”

  “I'm so dreadfully sorry.”

  “It's quite alright.” I meant that, although I felt a faint tremor in my chest. “They died when I was very young. I don't even remember them.”

  “So the nuns raised you?”

  “They did, M'am.”

  “How quaint.” She chuckled. “I suppose they taught you things, did they not?”

  “I believe that the Lord delivered me here for a reason,” I explained, unable to keep from glancing into the carriage and seeing that the dead child was being bumped by its shaky movement across the uneven ground. “He must have some plan. Not just for me, but for all of us.”

  “Even Stephen? At his young age?”

  I swallowed hard. “Even Stephen.”

  “And you do not consider the possibility that God made a mistake?”

  “He cannot have done so,” I replied. “Just because we are unable to understand his plans, that does not mean He lacks a purpose for us. Quite the contrary, perhaps it means that his purpose is all the more vital. Our lives are in his hands.”

  “That's an interesting way of seeing things,” she said, as the carriage's wheels became stuck in a small rut that ran through the frozen soil.

  “Let me help,” I replied, stepping around and gently lifting the carriage so that it came free.

  I set the wheels down, and we continued along our way. I had begun to notice that we were keeping to the very edge of the garden, as if Mrs. Brooks wanted to stay as far from the house as possible while not actually leaving the grounds. It was as if, bound here by the limits of Grangehurst's property, we were exercising our freedom in full while not daring to go out beyond the gate.

  “Do you really think that God would send you to a place such as Grangehurst?” Mrs. Brooks asked after a moment. “Do you not think that he might, instead, abandon us entirely and send you to some other house, where you might find people who could yet be saved?”

  “Everybody can be saved,” I replied.

  “You don't really believe that, do you?”

  “Most certainly. Mother Superior told me once that it is a sin to give up on anybody. Yes, people make terrible mistakes from time to time, but their souls can still be restored to glory if only they recognize the love of our heavenly father. They can be saved at any moment, so long as they allow themselves to believe.”

  “It sounds so strange to hear you say those things,” she muttered, “yet I can tell that you truly believe them.”

  “I do.”

  “Without doubt?”

  “I have no doubt at all.”

  It was true, back then. It is true now, as well, but in a different manner. My faith today is far more mature and developed than the blind indoctrination that controlled my every move as a young woman.

  “Stop for a moment,” Mrs. Brooks said suddenly, bringing the carriage to a halt and turning to look back across the garden, toward the house. “I told you that I wanted to show you something, but I do not want to point it out and make things too easy. You seem like a perceptive woman, so I wonder if perhaps you will notice it without guidance.”

  “I see the house,” I said, following her gaze, “and the garden.”

  “What else?”

  “I see frozen ground, with traces of snow.”

  “What else?”

  “I see dark windows,” I continued, looking at the windows on the rear of the house. “I see bricks and -”

  “Those are part of the house. Ignore the house, Ms. Seaton. What else do you see?”

  “I see the sky.”

  “What else?”

  “I see the fence, and the gate.”

  “But what else?”

  I looked around, but I was starting to feel a little exasperated. There was plainly nothing to see, other than the features that were right in front of me – and which I had already mentioned.

  Suddenly I felt Mrs. Brooks stepped much closer to me, and then she whispered into my ear so close that I could feel her warm breath:

  “Let me give you a hint, Beryl. Look at the ground.”

  I looked down, but all I saw was an expanse of frozen, snowy dirt with the occasional branch poking a few feet up toward the sky. There were some rocks piled nearby, as if to form some kind of haphazard wall or barrier, but I saw nothing remarkable whatsoever other than the deep trenches the crossed the land, as well as some late-morning frost that had persisted since dawn.

  I instinctively took a step back.

  “Why is the land here so riven?” I asked finally. “It seems most unusual, especially since the land beyond the fence is not so.”

  “So you did notice,” she replied. “It's because of the water that freezes, Ms. Seaton. We are unlucky here at this time of the year. Water falls during the day and collects in pools, and then at night it freezes and cracks the ground. Then the same water thaws in the morning and dribbles that bit deeper, before freezing again during the next night. That process has gone on over and over for so long now, the very ground beneath our feet is starting to rise apart. Not to mention the house, which suffers a similar problem in its foundations.”

  “But what of the land beyond the gate?” I asked. “Why does this phenomenon only affect this enclosed garden?”

  “Why indeed?” she asked with a faint smile. “One could speculate, could one not? Indeed, one could say that -”

  She stopped herself just in time. Perhaps if she had completed that sentence, as we stood there on that cold day, even I might have understood the nature of what was wrong at Grangehurst. As it is, however, she merely shook her head and smiled, as if she had just emerged from some kind of reverie.

  “Never mind,” she said, patting me on the shoulder. “This is a new time in our lives, and I can already tell that Stephen likes you very much.” She turned and reached into the carriage, taking a moment to stroke the dead child's face. “Do not let my husband burden you unnecessarily, Ms. Seaton. If you let him, he will give you task after task that fall well beyond your remit, and that is not right. Your primary responsibility here is to look after our lovely little Stephen, and to keep him happy. Why, you've barely spent any time with him at all so far, and it's your first day. The two of you need to bond, and as it happens I feel rather tired. I must play with him some more and you will need time to organize your room, but after that would you mind looking after Stephen alone for a short while later? Perhaps you can get him ready for bed?”

  Horrified by the idea, I hesitated for a moment. I suppose I had known that this moment must soon come, but I was still reluctant to commit.

  “It would be so awfully kind of you,” she continued. “I have been struggling along, but I have barely had time to breathe. Elliot thinks that all this work has made me ill. That is why he insisted on hiring a new governess, so that I might enjoy some relief. He says that I might start going back to my old self, if I can just rest now and again. I don't can know what he means by that, but he says it a lot. Please, Ms. Seaton. Only a few hours, I beg you. It won't take long for you to settle him come evening.”

  Swallowing hard, I realized that I could not turn the woman down.

  “Of course,” I told her, forcing a smile that was entirely contrary to the horror I felt. “I would be glad to look after Stephen later.”

  Chapter Seven

  So it came that I found myself, a half hour later, standing in the nursery and staring down at the dead child in the crib.

  Perhaps at this juncture, a reader might suppose that I heard a ghostly cry, or that the temperature suddenly plunged, or even that the child moved slightly. Perhaps a strange creaking sound caught my attention, or I spotted something moving in the corn
er of my eye. Or if we are to really trawl the depths of gothic melodrama, perhaps I felt a chilled hand suddenly rest upon my shoulder from behind, accompanied by a ghostly voice that whispered something like:

  “Save him.”

  Or:

  “Avenge him.”

  None of these things happened, of course. Not then. The ghosts that existed at Grangehurst were of a far more subtle and resourceful variety, as I was to learn imminently. For that moment, however, the dead child remained simply that: a dead child with mottled and discolored flesh, wrapped carefully in the most beautiful sheets and blankets, resting in a lovely old crib.

  I must confess, however, that I stood completely still for fully ten minutes before I realized that I would have to get on with the task at hand. The room remained silent, the child remained still, and there were no foreboding moments as I reached down into the crib and settled my hands on the child's swaddled sides. Yes, I felt sick to my stomach, and yes the whole situation felt desperately unnatural. Nevertheless, I got on with it and slowly, gently raised the surprisingly-light corpse from its crib.

  That was the first time I held Stephen in my arms.

  “Hello, Stephen,” I whispered, perhaps foolishly or perhaps kindly. I know that I was trying to do the right thing, and that I wanted above all to respect the lifeless little boy. “My name is Beryl, and you have been entrusted to me so that I might prepare you for bed.”

  I did not expect an answer, nor did one come. In truth, I think I spoke to him only because that seemed like the proper approach. After all, I had been told to treat him as one would usually treat a child, and the last thing I wanted was to disrespect him in any manner. I felt a terrible sense of apprehension as I held him for the first time, and in truth I think I did half expect his little dead eyes to start twitching, but of course no such thing transpired. I simply held him for a few minutes, before realizing that any delay would be entirely unnecessary.