by Clea Simon
Sign? Sight? A dark patch, mold or water, obscured the next word. Carefully, her hands sweating inside the archivist’s white gloves, she adjusted the magnifying glass to examine the page more closely, bringing it down as far as she dared. One errant move and the thick lens could crash down on the polypropylene envelope and the brittle page inside, just as she was about to—
‘Oh, my goodness.’ She’d almost forgotten about Griddlehaus; reading could do that to her. He was right behind her now, his soft voice impossible to ignore.
‘Yes?’ She heard the exasperation in her voice and tried to smile, to soften it. But as she turned around, willing at last to acknowledge the little man, she saw that Griddlehaus wasn’t even looking at her. Instead, he was staring at the paper in his hand. Despite his usual care for all things documentary, its edges were already wrinkled and damp. ‘Oh, my.’
‘Thomas – Mr Griddlehaus, what is it?’ Dulcie kicked herself. He really was upset, and she craned around to see what kind of bill or notice he held. ‘Why don’t you tell me? It can’t be that bad now, can it?’
He blinked up at her then, his eyes large and soft behind his oversized glasses. Holding out the paper to her in one trembling hand, he looked like he might cry.
‘Mr Griddlehaus?’ She took the paper from him. But if she was expecting a warning notice – perhaps about a beetle infestation or some change in filing procedures – she was in for a shock. ‘Wait – is this . . .?’
He nodded, his eyes filling with tears, and waved her on to read more.
She looked back at the paper. It was an official interlibrary request issued by the office of the dean of research. According to its typed instructions, a visiting scholar, one Melinda Sloane Harquist, had been granted permission at the highest level to look through the Mildon collection. Miss Sloane Harquist, a personalized note from the dean himself added, was particularly interested in literary fragments from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century, especially those written by unnamed female Gothic novelists.
The scholar, the note continued, was to be given all access and help possible in her search for a previously undiscovered work. She was, it concluded, the author of the soon-to-be-published blockbuster, Anonymous Unveiled: The Real-Life Heroine Behind The Ravages of Umbria.
THREE
‘How could I not know about this? How could I never have heard of her?’ As the warm day had progressed into an equally sultry night, Dulcie had moved beyond her initial shock. Sitting at the People’s Republik with her friends, her joy in the day’s work – in that single page – was forgotten, and she was progressing well into anger. ‘I mean, she’s been in none of the journals. And what kind of name is Sloane Harquist anyway?’
Chris, her boyfriend, reached over and took the mug from her hand. Dulcie really only drank beer to be social, and the way she was gesticulating now was likely to spread her untouched brew among her companions.
‘Well, maybe this woman hasn’t published before.’ Chris took an exploratory taste of Dulcie’s beer and grimaced. Despite the pub’s noisy air conditioning, some of the day’s humidity had followed them in, and Dulcie had let her brew get warm. ‘Maybe she’s been saving it all up?’
‘Ha.’ Trista Dunlop, Dulcie’s best buddy in the department, scoffed at the idea. ‘She’s been hiding out, waiting to spring this on us.’
Dulcie glanced up. Trista had actually finished her thesis and her postdoc research had nothing to do with the Goths; the ‘us’ was pure friendship. ‘Thanks, Tris. I’m just . . .’ She reached for the beer and took a sip without noticing its temperature. ‘I’m just confused.’
‘This doesn’t mean your thesis isn’t going to be good. As good,’ Chris corrected himself. Beside him, Jerry – Trista’s boyfriend – nodded vigorously. Computer science students, they’d both had to adjust to the relatively arcane and convoluted nature of their sweethearts’ field. ‘Or better,’ he tried again.
Dulcie didn’t even answer, and Trista stopped any further well-meaning remarks with a look. A bleached blonde with multiple piercings, Trista could stare down the best of them, and even six-foot-two Chris blanched.
‘Another pitcher?’ Jerry asked, standing.
‘Why don’t I come with you?’ Chris nearly knocked his chair over in his haste.
Left alone – as alone as they could be in the crowded pub – Dulcie let out a sigh and shook her head one more time. ‘Trista, I . . .’ But words would not suffice.
‘I know, kid. It’s awful.’ Trista slid over to take Chris’s seat, the better to talk over the jukebox. ‘I bet she doesn’t have half of what you have, though.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Dulcie, her dispirited tone at odds with the lively music. ‘I’ve already shown my hand with my paper. Anyone who reads that will know I’m on the trail of a missing work. Only the only thing I’ve found since those political essays is that fragment today. And I haven’t even started the work of verifying.’
Trista nodded. She knew the drudgery that followed the thrill of discovery. ‘You’ve started though, right? You’re not giving up?’
‘I’ve plugged it in.’ One advantage of having mathematically minded beaus was the customized software Chris and Jerry had worked up for the friends: Type in a phrase and it searched for similar wordings in any online library. The resulting metrics didn’t do all the work, but they did provide a short cut. ‘But that’s just a start, Tris. You know that. And she’s going to publish. First.’ There was no response to that, and the friends sat in companionable silence as ZZ Top filled the room.
‘Chris doesn’t get it,’ Dulcie said finally. ‘He wants to help, really. But he doesn’t understand.’
Trista nodded. ‘If only we could keep her out of the Mildon.’ She seemed to be thinking out loud. ‘Do you think that clerk, Griddlehaus, would help you?’
‘I don’t know.’ Dulcie had to admit, she’d thought about it. ‘He’s pretty law abiding. Especially after, you know, what happened last spring.’ The scandal that had brought down the Mildon’s director had come close to ruining the collection’s reputation. ‘He’s been specifically instructed to give her access – and to help her.’ Dulcie almost choked on the word. ‘The letter came with a personal note from that new associate dean, what’s his name – Roger Haitner?’
‘Robert Haitner? That whey-faced prig?’ Trista’s specialty – Victorian literature – tended to creep into her slang. ‘He’s been trouble ever since he was appointed. You know, that little bugbear and his rug were behind the elimination of Luther’s position.’
‘I didn’t.’ Rather pale herself, as well as diminutive in height, Dulcie winced a bit at Trista’s insults. It was true that the dean’s hair, suspiciously dark and thick, appeared fake, part of what seemed to be an attempt to look – and act – younger than his age. The rest, however, was news. Dulcie had heard that the documents restoration department had lost some of its funding. She’d come back from summer vacation to find Griddlehaus as upset as she’d ever seen him, but she hadn’t known the cause. ‘You’d think, if he wants this woman here, he’d have been more careful about cutting jobs and alienating people.’
‘Maybe it’s something special about her.’ Trista started to smile, a tight, mean smile. Even Dulcie had heard about the dean’s reputation as a Lothario. Everyone had. ‘But maybe there’s something we can do about it on the other end. We may be stuck with him, but we can trip her up a little. Let her know she’s not welcome in Cambridge.’
‘No.’ Dulcie shook her head again, sadly. ‘I don’t know what’s going on – I mean, with the dean and all. I do know she’s got pull. That letter was like an all-access pass. And even if she didn’t, I can’t stand in her way. I mean, it’s not her fault that I’ve been slow.’ Trista’s brow furrowed, rousing Dulcie. ‘Maybe I can talk to her.’ She affected a cheer she didn’t really feel. ‘See what she’s looking for. Maybe I can find some part of the Ravages she isn’t interested in. Some little fact she doesn’t care ab
out.’
‘Dulcie, are you serious?’ Trista looked up and accepted a fresh mug from Jerry. Chris sat one chair over, his feeling of helplessness showing on his face. ‘You want to make peace with this, this—’
‘I don’t want to, Tris.’ The anger was surfacing again. ‘I don’t want to talk to her or try to get along with her. I don’t want to have anything to do with this . . . this Sloane Harquist person. But I think I have to. I think it’s the only way to get through this, the only way to see if I may still have something to say in my own thesis.’
In an uncharacteristic move, she picked up her own mug and took a long pull of beer. Choking a little, she wiped her mouth, her lips set in a new determination. ‘Truth is, if I had my way, I could murder her.’
FOUR
‘Maybe you really should talk to her?’ Chris sounded so tentative that Dulcie was seized by guilt. ‘You know, a little scholar-to-scholar confab?’
‘Have I sounded that fierce?’ Dulcie looked up at her boyfriend. They had left the pub early, Dulcie’s mood not getting any better in the crowded bar. Now they sat on his old sofa, Dulcie holding Esmé, their cat, in her lap. She’d been focusing on Esmé, letting the young feline bat at her outstretched finger with one white mitten. Now she studied Chris’s pale, thin face and wondered out loud. ‘Have I become an ogre?’
To his credit, the slim computer geek smiled at the idea. ‘Hardly.’ As he pushed his bangs back, though, he revealed worried eyes. ‘But I’ve never seen you so angry, Dulce. You can be a little scary when you get that worked up.’
Dulcie felt herself flush. She was taller than Thomas Griddlehaus, but in the grand scheme of things, she’d be considered petite. A little round, perhaps, but hardly threatening.
Just then, Esmé pounced, biting the finger she held between her paws. ‘Ow, Esmé!’ Dulcie pulled back, and caught the sharp look the green feline eyes gave her. Size, they said, had nothing to do with ferocity. ‘Sorry,’ she said, leaning over to rest her head on her boyfriend’s chest.
‘I don’t blame you.’ He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her closer. The movement should have disturbed the cat, but the little animal only readjusted. ‘I mean, you have reason.’
‘Tell me about it.’ She sniffed, the tears that had been threatening since that afternoon coming dangerously close to the surface. ‘I just felt so . . . blindsided.’
‘And you had no idea?’ he’d asked – they all had. It was inconceivable. ‘Martin Thorpe really owes you one,’ he said.
She shook her head. Her thesis adviser wasn’t omniscient. ‘He reads the same journals I do,’ she said sadly. ‘He gets the same notices of publications and of meetings. It’s just—’
‘Inconceivable.’ Chris finished her sentence.
Dulcie felt her eyes closing. It had been an exhausting day, and she’d been so upset she had drunk more than she’d intended. She didn’t even like beer, really. The pub was simply social, the grad students’ ‘other place’ away from home or work. And on their budgets, anything beside the on-tap special was prohibitively expensive. She was going to have a headache in the morning, she realized, starting to drift off. As long as she didn’t have the dream again: all that blood darkening the red hair. Or was it black? Somehow she couldn’t be sure . . .
Teeth woke her. Esmé’s teeth, sharp and quick. ‘What the . . .?’
‘What happened?’ Chris, she realized, had fallen asleep on the couch beside her.
‘This cat. She keeps biting me.’ Dulcie looked down. Esmé stared back, unblinking. ‘What is it, Esmé?’
‘You think she’s trying to tell you something?’ Chris yawned and would have stood, only the little cat reached out one white paw. ‘Oh, she’s so cute.’
‘Cute for a tyrant,’ Dulcie muttered. ‘She’s got you wrapped around her paw. What is it, Esmé? You know you could tell me directly, if you wanted.’
She could have, Dulcie knew. Although she and Chris barely discussed it, they both had heard the voice of the young cat, speaking in quite articulate English. Usually, however, that feline voice wasn’t directed to them, but to Mr Grey – Dulcie’s late great cat whose presence lingered in spectral form, as a kind of feline guardian over all their lives.
‘Maybe she just doesn’t want us to go to bed.’ Dulcie sighed. ‘You know, cats are largely nocturnal.’
‘Well, I’ll play with her tomorrow.’ Chris stood and stretched. ‘Now, though, I’ve got to get some shut-eye. I’m not used to these daytime shifts.’
Dulcie smiled up at her boyfriend. He’d worked overnights at the computer lab almost as long as they’d been together. Over the summer, he’d taken time off, and these last few weeks on the same schedule had been heavenly. ‘Darlene covering again?’ The new girl had jumped at the higher-paying shifts.
Chris nodded. ‘I don’t think she’ll mind getting back to daylight hours, though.’ Although she had yet to meet Chris’s new colleague, he had already told Dulcie about the younger girl’s relatively new romance with the Dardley House senior tutor. ‘We know how rough it can be.’
She nodded, but kept her thoughts to herself. With the term revving up again, he had to do the practical thing. They both did. That meant, for her, taking as many sections as the department would give her – and as many as Thorpe would approve. For Chris, it meant the overnights. Soon, Dulcie knew, he’d be at the lab at this hour, guiding hapless undergrads. Then the only one she’d have to talk to would be Esmé.
‘Wait a minute, Chris.’ He turned on his way to the bathroom. ‘What did you mean, I should talk to her?’
‘Just following up on something you said to Trista.’ He yawned again. ‘Maybe find out if there’s some area she hasn’t written about. Maybe there’s something she isn’t interested in, but that you are.’
‘Find some niche that I could call my own.’ Dulcie looked back at the cat. Esmé seemed to be regarding her. ‘Write a thesis out of the leftover scraps.’
‘It doesn’t have to be like that.’ Her boyfriend’s voice was clear, but Dulcie was suddenly aware of another presence. Although she could clearly see her current pet on her lap, she felt the undeniable prick of feline claws on her forearms, making the hair on them stand up. ‘It could be, well, collaborative.’ Chris was still speaking.
‘Maybe there is something she missed . . .’ The claws could be a warning – but they could also be an alert, telling her not to miss her opportunity. ‘Something I know that she doesn’t.’
‘Exactly.’ Chris sounded relieved. ‘That’s my girl, Dulcie. I can’t see you giving up.’
‘Not when I have such a great support network.’ Dulcie lifted the corporeal cat to the floor and stood to follow her boyfriend. That slight pinprick was gone, leaving only the memory – and a question. ‘Come on, Esmé,’ she said to the cat, who responded by bounding ahead of her into the bedroom. ‘Mr Grey?’ She looked around the empty living room. Nothing. She turned the light off and waited, still nothing.
Chris came out of the bathroom. ‘Are you coming to bed?’
‘Yeah, in a minute.’ She passed by him and reached for her toothbrush. ‘I was wondering though.’ Her toothbrush had suddenly become the most fascinating object in the world, and she stared at it hard. Maybe then he wouldn’t see the tears gathering in her eyes. ‘What about Mr Grey, Chris? He had to have known that something was wrong. Didn’t he? And if so, then why didn’t he let me know?’
FIVE
Blood, she hadn’t expected so much blood. The dark’ning ichor lay pool’d around the body, its flow now halted by the ebbing of the very essence of the creature’s Being. Blood, so much blood. She felt her own carmine pulse racing in her Veins. Could it be the same vital fluid as now lay cooling at her feet? In truth, she had not expected such a Human trait in one she considered a Wraith, a Spectre. A creature both foul and Unclean. Then again, she knew that the evil creature, the thing that now lay cold and still before her, had feasted upon her very Essence, a Vampire of the Soul. On
ly the Creature’s curls showed brightness now, red and gold. The blood had cooled. Blood . . . There was so much blood.
Dulcie woke with a start, her heartbeat throbbing like the neighbor’s house music. She’d had the dream again, the horrible dream. In it, she had first seen the text, the description of terror, penned in a feminine hand, archaic and yet elegant. And then the words had faded, showing the carnage that she had started to read about. In the dream, she was the writer – and felt the chill of horror in her own self. Only this time, it was different. Worse. She wasn’t only viewing a gory scene. She was involved, somehow. Deeply involved with the body that lay cooling on the library floor.
Breathing deeply to still her racing heart, Dulcie made herself go over it again. Only by deciphering its shadowed meaning, she was sure, would she be free of the horror that woke her, night after night.
Beside her, Chris stirred, and she slipped out of bed. He worked so hard, she didn’t want to wake him. The first time she’d had the nightmare, three nights ago, he had woken her. She had opened her eyes to see his worried face. He’d been shaking her gently. Urging her to wake, to throw off whatever bad dream she was in. She’d been making strangled sounds, he’d told her, as if she’d been trying to scream – to wake herself.
Dulcie reached for her robe and shrugged into it. At least she’d progressed to waking herself up. And any progress was good. With that in mind, she made her way to the kitchen, where she’d left her laptop, to find Esmé sitting on the keyboard, batting at the mousepad. Distracted by the news, she must have left it open, and the movement of the cat had caused the screen to become active, glowing bright behind her like the moon outside.
‘Esmé, no.’ Dulcie reached for the cat, who had pounced on the computer’s touch pad. ‘There’s no real mouse there – no!’ As she lifted the rotund feline off the machine, Esmé squirmed and bit – and Dulcie dropped her. The little tuxedo responded by jumping back up on to the table, but Dulcie was too fast for her and closed the laptop. Esmé yowled with disappointment.
