Charlotte Markham and the House of Darkling

by Michael Boccacino

  Paul tightened his grip, breathless from our escape. “What about Mother?”

  “Lily, you are coming with us,” I called out behind me, but Mrs. Darrow shook her head in earnest.

  “I can’t. You know I can’t.” But then the chaos of the ballroom erupted into the orchard. A body was thrown from a second-story window, and the attacker leapt out after its victim, continuing to claw at it in midair before they had even hit the ground.

  “Oh, I think you can.” The four of us dashed between the trees.

  Lily was on the verge of tears. “But I’m not ready,” she said desperately.

  James seemed to soften, seeing her in such a pathetic state, unable to defend himself against his mother’s misery. We found the wall of coiling fog.

  “Mr. Whatley is doomed, you cannot stay. But we can say good-bye, here and now,” I said to her.

  “I’m so frightened.”

  “The boys will be with you to the end. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

  “What I wanted was more time. There are so many things I wanted to teach you,” she said, taking the hands of her sons into her own. “Marry for love. See the world.” We approached the veil of mist that separated the living from the dead. “Cherish every day with your children. Don’t let your father become lonely. Treasure every single moment.” Lily kissed both of her sons, the three of them in tears.

  “We will, Mother,” Paul replied, red-faced from the dual exhaustion of running and crying.

  “I don’t know what will become of me, but know that I love you both so very much,” said Lily, her words breaking apart before they even left her lips. Still, she nodded to me, and together the four of us crossed over the threshold from Darkling into Everton.

  But this time, there was a figure in the mist.

  “I’m afraid I cannot allow any of you to leave.” Mr. Samson was not himself. His human body had been completely torn apart save for his face, revealing a puckered mass of red flesh and many-jointed tendrils.

  “We are returning home, sir,” I said to him. “We are done with The Ending.”

  “But we are not done with you. We must have humans in The Ending. There must be retribution for what has transpired this evening.” His body shuddered, and four boneless limbs slithered along the ground to grab hold of us. I kicked them away, and Lily launched herself at Mr. Samson. He flung her to the ground like a rag doll. I leapt behind him and jumped onto his back, pushing my fingers into what I hoped were his eyes, digging at them with all my might, but I could not keep my grip. He tossed me aside, my head bouncing against something solid. My vision filled with stars and I drifted out of consciousness, the names of the Darrows on my lips as the mist swirled above me until I heard someone calling my name, softly at first, then gathering substance like an echo in reverse.

  “Charlotte?”

  I opened my eyes. The sky blazed with the pink and purple bruising of twilight.

  “Charlotte? What on earth are you wearing?” Henry leaned over me, and I realized that we must have looked very foolish wearing evening clothes in the middle of a winter afternoon. I was glad to have such a high-collared dress, and the opal brooch to hold it tightly closed against my throat. But then I remembered . . .

  I sat up and whipped around. Paul and James were nowhere to be found, and behind the cage of roots, a path led into the heart of the forest. The mist was gone. I spun in place three times, my heart sinking.

  “We came looking for you. You’ve been gone for hours,” said Henry with growing concern. “We started to worry that—” He grabbed me by the arms. “Where are the children?”

  “They were just with me!” I said in a voice hoarse with horror. I collapsed against him, unable to process what had happened, let alone speak it aloud. But still he asked me the question I dreaded:

  “Charlotte, where are my children? What’s happened?”

  Words came out of my mouth, but I did not hear them. My voice cracked, and with it my entire world fell to pieces.

  “They’re gone.”

  Part 3

  The Ending

  CHAPTER 17

  An Interrupted Séance

  “I believe you.”

  I had spent the better part of an hour seated on the frozen floor of the forest trying to explain to Mr. Darrow all that had happened during the past few weeks, and nothing surprised me more than those three simple words he uttered when I had reached the end of my tale.

  “Completely? Without any question?”

  “After what was done to Nanny Prum, and after seeing the thing that attacked Susannah Larken . . . yes, I believe you.”

  I threw my arms around him and rested my chin on his shoulder.

  “We will find them.”

  I didn’t know what to say. In a way I was grateful that the game of secrets had ended and that Mr. Darrow believed me, but in that moment I hated myself. In my vanity and arrogance I had used the children as pawns in a larger game between Mr. Whatley and myself, and that I had lost them was no one’s fault but my own. It did not matter that my intentions were pure, I had put them in danger and now they were gone, to be used as collateral in the civil war of The Ending. Or just as likely, to be stored away next to their mother in Mr. Whatley’s secret chamber.

  If Whatley survived. But I knew that was foolish. Creatures like Whatley always survived. It was the innocent who suffered.

  Once I realized that we were all in danger, I should have severed our connection to Darkling and accepted the consequences. But I knew that wouldn’t have been enough. There was still Susannah to consider, and Nanny Prum.

  “We should get you back to the house,” Mr. Darrow said to me. We stood together in the forest as the other men from the search party joined us. Roland looked on me with sympathy as I shivered in my evening gown against the cold midwinter’s day. Mr. Darrow took off his jacket and placed it over my shoulders. I was too tired to argue. I wanted to throw off his kindness and race to find the children, but I had no idea where to begin. We walked out of the forest and into the sunlight. The warmth against my skin did nothing to alleviate the dread I felt growing in my chest, which swelled as my mind wandered to the night before, when Susannah was attacked by the mysterious, otherworldly assailant.

  “Susannah, is she well?”

  Mr. Darrow’s eyes swept over me with pity, as if I could be foolish enough to believe that she had indeed recovered from nearly being killed by some nameless, shapeless monstrosity only days before Christmas.

  “The last time I saw her I was with you. But it is difficult to forget her condition, since it is all the servants have been talking about. I understand that she continues to rave about impossible things, and that she screams whenever her husband leaves her side. Dr. Barberry attempted to take her away this morning, but Lionel would not hear of it. He is certain that she will recover on her own.”

  “And she will. I’ve never met anyone as strong as Susannah Larken.”

  Mr. Darrow said nothing more until we were halfway back to Everton. “We must talk to Lily.”

  “I have no idea how to contact her.”

  “She’s dead,” he replied as if he had lost her a second time. His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “There are ways, are there not?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mrs. Markham, after everything that’s happened, I don’t think it’s out of the question for us to contact my wife through a medium.” He said this in what I hoped was a tone a little more harsh than he intended, even though I knew I deserved it.

  “You’re perfectly right, Mr. Darrow.” I was aware that we had not addressed each other by our first names in quite some time. “But where do we find one?”

  Even as I said it, it sounded like the most ridiculous question in the world. We turned to one another at the same time and sprinted the rest of the way to Everton.


  We found Mrs. Norman on the second floor of the house, busy reducing Jessica the chambermaid to tears.

  “You call this dusted?”

  The girl winced at the infliction of each word. “Sorry, Mrs. Norman, I thought—”

  “No. You did not think. Not even to a degree that would be halfway acceptable.”

  Mr. Darrow intervened. “Erm, Mrs. Norman?”

  The housekeeper turned to her employer, and her icy demeanor melted into something that was nearly pleasant.

  “Yes, Mr. Darrow?” She spoke in a clipped, mannered rhythm that only highlighted the woman’s predilection for structure and rules.

  “Could I have a word for a moment?”

  “Certainly.” She backed away from the girl, who scampered off like a wounded animal.

  “Mrs. Norman, it’s no secret that you have a great interest in the supernatural.”

  “It is true, the Other World does hold a great deal of fascination for me, especially ever since dear Mr. Norman passed on.” She crossed herself and kissed the cross that hung at her throat.

  “Have you tried to contact him in spirit form?”

  “A number of times, yes. And I was successful, once.” She began to talk in an excited, confidential tone. She lowered her voice and looked around to make sure that we weren’t being overheard. “He helped me find a shawl I had misplaced.”

  “Ah. Well. We would like to hold a séance. To contact Mrs. Darrow.”

  “A séance?” The housekeeper looked at me as if she had not noticed me standing there in such close proximity to Mr. Darrow. She rubbed her chin. “I’ve never performed one before; I typically use the cards, you see, but yes, I suppose it could be done. I would need time to consult my books—”

  I interrupted her. “I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.”

  “The dead can usually wait,” said Mrs. Norman in a sharp tone that was much closer to her usual voice. But Mr. Darrow began to lose patience.

  “I’m afraid that this time they can’t.” He spoke to her in the same tone he had used toward me, that of a master instructing a servant.

  Mrs. Norman and I flinched at the same time, but she nodded in acquiescence.

  “Let me collect my things upstairs, and I’ll meet you in your study, Mr. Darrow.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “The servants are skittish when it comes to the supernatural.” She went down to the servants’ quarters while Mr. Darrow went to his study and I to my room, where the chains looped around the bedpost disappeared into the floorboards, the creature held by them off in some lower part of the house scrounging for private conversations.

  I quickly changed out of the dress I’d worn to Darkling. I almost put on the black, somber governess’s uniform that made me look and feel much older than I was, like an elderly spinster, the sort of woman I might still have become, alone and bitter, raising other people’s children in a vicarious, unfulfilling life. But it seemed too much like a death shroud. I could not bear to imagine what was happening to the children. I found a casual blue cotton dress with white pinstripes and made my way to Mr. Darrow’s study. Mrs. Norman had still not arrived, and the master of Everton stood gazing at his wife’s portrait with not a small hint of dejection. He turned away from it when he noticed that I was standing in the doorway.

  “We will find them, Henry,” I said, regressing to our intimacy with more confidence than I felt. He smiled at me weakly and was about to reply when Mrs. Norman barreled into the room carrying a heavy-looking carpetbag in her arms. She dropped it onto Henry’s desk with some relief and began unloading various pieces of occult paraphernalia.

  “Mrs. Markham, set the candles in a circle around the desk. Mr. Darrow, pull those chairs here.” She pointed to the sides of the desk and removed an old, heavy book with leather binding from the bottom of the bag, sending decks of tarot cards and phials of powders and liquids to the floor. She did not seem to notice the mess and opened the book.

  “Sit and join hands.” We formed an uncomfortable circle in the middle of Henry’s study. “Relax, breathe in and out.”

  We did this for some time, until the room was heavy with silence and the smell of incense burning with the candles.

  She continued. “Now, our beloved Lily Darrow, we ask that you commune with us and move among us.” We sat in silence, waiting for something to happen. Mrs. Norman repeated the phrase a dozen times. Nothing happened. The room grew stuffy, and my fingers felt clammy in the hands of the others. I became very conscious of Henry’s touch. I tightened my grip on his hand without thinking and was surprised when he returned the gesture. Then, the air in the room suddenly grew colder.

  “If you are with us, please rap once,” said Mrs. Norman in the dreamy sort of way one would expect a medium to sound, as if she had been practicing for this moment for some time. A knock sounded everywhere and nowhere, echoing and distant, perhaps upon some tabletop in another plane of existence.

  “If we are communing with Lily Darrow, please rap once more.” The ethereal rap sounded again. “I would like to invite the spirit of Lily Darrow to use my body as vessel to speak with us directly.” The temperature continued to drop. The candles went out, and Mrs. Norman leaned forward in her chair until her head was hanging over the top of the desk. She snapped back up as the candles reignited themselves, but kept her eyes firmly closed. Henry and I looked at one another.

  “Lily?”

  Mrs. Norman spoke with her own voice, but it was higher and more melodic, with none of the cold authority that so characterized her.

  “Henry?”

  “Yes, love! I’m here with Charlotte.”

  “Oh, Charlotte!” Mrs. Norman let out a small sob. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t want any of this to happen, you must believe me!”

  I did not answer her directly. “Are the children all right?”

  “Yes, but Mr. Samson refuses to let us leave, and he has forced Mr. Whatley to close the portal. The war has begun.”

  “But why are the children important?”

  “He means to use them to destroy The Ending.”

  Henry looked at me in confusion, but I pressed on.

  “There must be some way to bring them back?” I asked.

  “I still know so little of The Ending, but there are different doorways, different methods of entry. The books in the library—”

  “Oh!” I gasped, and my lips formed into a perfect circle of surprise. Lily/Mrs. Norman looked around the room blindly.

  “Did something happen?” they asked.

  “No, I just remembered, there are books from Darkling in my room!” I thought it best not to mention the eyeless, childlike thing chained to my bed.

  “I’m afraid I’m terribly confused,” said Henry. We both ignored him.

  “Which ones did you take?” asked Lily through Mrs. Norman.

  “I believe there’s one called Mysteries of The Ending.”

  The medium and the spirit within her became visibly troubled. “You can use the book, but you must be careful. You will have to travel a great distance through The Ending to reach Darkling, but even then, what would you do when you got here?”

  “Humans are a threat to The Ending, and I think I know why.”

  Before I could explain any further, there was a knock at the door and Roland entered the room carrying a clattering tray of tea and biscuits. Fredricks had taken ill when he returned from the ball, and the young gardener had been fulfilling his duties as he had been training to do. Lily stopped speaking through Mrs. Norman, the connection severed by the intrusion as the housekeeper recovered and became herself again.

  Roland closed the door and set the tray onto the middle of the desk. “Tea, sir?”

  Henry became very cross. “I am indisposed, Roland. Please take this away and make sure that we are not interrupted again.”

  But the y
oung man ignored him. He placed a saucer and a cup before each of us and began to pour the tea, his hands shaking as he did so that the liquid spilled over the table.

  “Roland!” Mrs. Norman lunged for her book, knocking over a candlestick onto a pile of Henry’s papers, which ignited immediately into a small fire. The gardener suddenly grabbed her arm and lifted her into the air until her feet scraped at the carpeting. He threw her across the room so that she collapsed against a shelf of books.

  Henry stood from his chair indignantly. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Roland struck him across the face, sending him roughly to the ground. The room was burning now. I backed away, not from the flames but from the young man as he began to shake uncontrollably, his face contorting in pain, wrinkling in strange ways as if it were not a face at all. I realized that it wasn’t when his throat bulged oddly, as if something were pushing its way out of his chest. I pulled Henry away from him and then ran to lift Mrs. Norman to her feet just as the boy hunched over the table and made a terrible retching sound. A tentacle slid out of his mouth, protruding from between his lips until the girth of the thing was so great it tested the very limits of his mouth. His throat continued to expand, and his cheeks split in a spatter of blood as the tentacle continued rolling out of his throat until it was two feet in length. It coiled into the air above the remains of his head and made a slashing motion at his throat. A nest of tendrils and feelers spilled out of the gash in his esophagus, over his chest, each one tearing at his flesh and undoing him, releasing him so that he expanded, a writhing mass of movement and gore, to his full stature, many feet taller than any human being could ever be. Roland opened like a flower, a blossom of black, wet, slithering appendages curling from the pulp of human mess, and was no more.

  We did not stand around to wait for the end of his metamorphosis. The room was nearly engulfed in flames, and the three of us crept toward the door until Henry wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and pulled Mrs. Norman and me over the threshold into the hallway, slamming the door closed behind him. The creature shrieked from within the room, a fluttering, high-pitched buzzing sound that left me nauseated and oddly half asleep, as if it were all a dream that I could wake up from if only I concentrated a little harder. But then the door shook as the thing that had been Roland threw itself against it, tearing me from my reverie.