Nightingale House

by Steve Frech

  She turned her head towards the pharmacy and we saw each other. Instead of her customary condescension, she actually appeared concerned, but it was only for a moment before she continued on.

  Father and I worked the store for the rest of the day, which was indeed one of our busiest, but that is not very high praise.

  Once we closed the pharmacy, we returned home. I went to my room and have been trying to scrub Mr. Carrington’s blood off the sleeve of my shirt.

  I assume Father is drinking down the hall.

  I shall try to sleep, but I’m worried of what horrors tomorrow will bring.

  Good night.

  October 1st, 1900

  I spent all of yesterday nervously glancing out the window, expecting Mr. Carrington to suddenly arrive and smash the glass, but he never appeared.

  We were able to sell off a good portion of the store’s inventory. It’s all at a loss, but we’re only accepting cash and all accounts have been closed so that we can have the money in hand.

  The disappearance of Katherine Carrington is still all that anyone talks about.

  Amid the bustle this afternoon, I happened to catch a glimpse of Patricia Fleming and her cadre walked across the square. However, this time, she stopped and looked at me through the pharmacy window. She was clearly concerned. She even made a step towards the pharmacy, but then continued on with her friends.

  I thought it was strange but it only occupied my thoughts for a moment before I was forced to continue helping customers.

  We stayed open later than usual in the hopes of selling more of our stock. Father’s worried that the more days we stay open, the more likely a collector will eventually come calling.

  We closed around nine o’clock after managing to clear out roughly a third of the storeroom. Father and I were both exhausted by the time we arrived home and went straight to bed.

  October 2nd, 1900

  This morning, Father and I walked to the pharmacy. I still haven’t told him of my situation or of Mr. Carrington. I was hoping we could finish the sale and leave Kingsbrook before it became necessary.

  As we entered the main square, we saw that everyone was either reading or carrying a newspaper. I assumed that there may have been a development in the disappearance of Katherine Carrington and was anxious to get to the pharmacy.

  I opened the door and went inside while Father brought in the stack of newspapers, which he said was the last we would receive, as he had canceled the subscription. He set the bundled stack on the counter and cut the twine.

  I was about to step into the storeroom to bring out more items to stock the shelves when I heard Father call out, “Rebecca?”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  He held up the paper and pointed to an article in the corner.

  I stepped over for a closer look.

  Thomas Carrington Found Dead

  I braced myself against the counter. Father brought me a chair and a glass of water as I read the article, which didn’t say much more than the headline. Thomas Carrington had been found dead yesterday in his bedroom at the Nightingale House. The article said that it may have been the result of a sudden illness, possibly brought on by the grief of his daughter’s disappearance. I flipped through the paper to see if there was any more, but the article was all there was.

  It didn’t make sense. I considered that the wound I gave him may have become infected, but that would have taken weeks, not two days.

  “Rebecca,” Father said, “you look ill. Would you like to go home? I can run the store, myself.”

  I told him that I was fine, that it was just a bit of a shock.

  I didn’t want to go home. I wanted answers, and I hoped someone would have them.

  There were more customers this morning than yesterday, which is no surprise when you’re practically giving away the merchandise, but I made sure to keep my eyes on the window as one o’clock approached.

  They arrived, right on time, strolling across the square.

  Thankfully, we were experiencing a lull in the customers over lunch, and I told Father that I was stepping out for a moment.

  I hurried out the door and across the street.

  “Ms. Fleming?” I called when I was a few steps behind them.

  They stopped and turned.

  Patricia was surprised to see me.

  “May I have a word with you?” I asked.

  She regarded me briefly and then told her friends that they should go on without her and that she would catch up.

  “What is it?” she asked, once they had moved away.

  “I wanted to ask you about Mr. Carrington.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘Thomas’?”

  “Please,” I said. “You looked concerned, yesterday, like you were going to come to the pharmacy to talk to me. Do you know what happened?”

  She paused again, and then her haughty demeanor fell. “Walk with me.”

  I obeyed and we began slowly strolling along the square.

  “Is he really dead?” I asked.

  “Yes. He was found in his bedroom. The police came and spoke to my father. I was listening on the stairs.” She looked at me and sighed. “I guess I may have a bit of a habit of snooping.”

  I was still struggling to believe that he was truly gone.

  “What illness?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The paper said it was a sudden illness.”

  She hesitated, as if weighing her words before answering.

  “It wasn’t an illness,” she said.

  “What?”

  “It wasn’t a mysterious illness. He killed himself in his room with a pistol.”

  She strolled on a few more steps before she realized that I had stopped walking and was no longer at her side.

  “He killed himself?” I asked.

  “So it would seem. You were on familiar terms with him. Any ideas why he would do that?”

  By the way she was studying me, it was clear that she believed that I did, but my shock was unreadable.

  “If he killed himself, why did the paper say it was an illness?” I asked.

  “Because it’s Kingsbrook. Their daughter’s disappearance is enough of a scandal. It’s out of respect for Mrs. Carrington and the rest of her family.”

  “Where is Mrs. Carrington?”

  “I heard my father say that she’s still in Boston. Their valet is on his way to join her.”

  I looked around the square, still unable to comprehend it all.

  “Listen,” Patricia said, stepping closer, “I don’t know exactly what your ‘business’ was with Thomas Carrington, but if you want my advice, it’s best that he’s out of everyone’s lives … Was there anything else?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, thank you for the pleasant walk, but I’m going to rejoin my friends now.”

  She sadly smiled at me and walked off.

  October 5th, 1900

  Tonight we locked the pharmacy for the last time.

  It took two more days, but we’ve sold almost all of the inventory. There were some items left on the shelves, but we’re leaving those behind.

  With some of the money we’ve made over the past three days, Father bought a horse and small wagon. Tonight, we’re going to only gather the essentials from the house and leave first thing in the morning. I’ve already packed most of my clothes. It’s all too much. I’m taking a rest to write this entry before deciding what else to bring.

  I’m going to tell Father everything once we leave Kingsbrook. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Maybe I’ll be able to find a loving family to adopt the child. Maybe I’ll try to raise it on my own to make sure it doesn’t grow up to be like its father.

  I don’t know.

  For now, I must decide how much of my life I want to take with me on Father’s next ‘adventure’.

  October 6th, 1900

  I’m sitting at Mr. Carrington’s desk in the Nightingale House. I must be quick. Father is waiting
outside. These are the last words I will ever write in this journal and I hope no one reads them, but I can’t bring myself to destroy it. Destroying it won’t erase the past.

  Last night, while trying to decide what to take into our new lives, I decided that I did not want to take these memories. I want to leave them here, in Kingsbrook, in the Nightingale House, where so many of them were born.

  I convinced Father to take us by the house as we left Kingsbrook. He was understandably confused but agreed to do it. We drove out through the bitter morning cold to Willow Lake. I knew no one would be here. Mrs. Carrington and Mr. Whitlock are still in Boston. I went to the porch and found the key under the pot on the table. I had to reassure Father to wait for a few minutes as I unlocked the door and went inside.

  I walked around the house one last time, stopping in the master bedroom, and came down here, to his little sanctuary. I’m going to leave the journal in the secret compartment in the bookcase. I’m returning his gift. Then, I’m going out back and throwing the key into the lake.

  I don’t know what the future holds, but I know I want to let go of this past and bury it here in the Nightingale House, this house that holds nothing but sadness.

  Farewell.

  27

  I close the journal.

  I’ve been reading for hours and it’s pitch black outside.

  It happened here. It happened here in this house. Questions are tumbling in my head. What happened that night at the train station? Mr. Whitlock said Katherine was with them. I have to try the number for the Whitlocks again.

  I take out my phone and stand up. It’s stifling in here and I need air. I go to the window and am about to push it open but stop when I look down below.

  Nicole is standing there on the lawn. She’s looking up at me with a terrified expression.

  “It’s your fault …”

  The whisper to my left is coarse, like wet sandpaper.

  I turn my head. Now Nicole is standing next to the bed, but it’s the broken, shattered Nicole with the lifeless eyes. I stumble backwards. I momentarily look down at the floor to regain my footing. When I glance back, she’s gone.

  I don’t see her but I can feel it. It’s not over. There’s still something here, with me.

  In a panic, I run to the bedroom door and throw it open.

  Instantly, I’m hit by a wall of black mist. It surrounds me and seeps into my skin. Then, in the blink of an eye, it evaporates.

  Everything about the hall is different but the same.

  Gas lamps line the walls of the hallway, giving off a rich, soft glow. It’s like a dream and I never want to leave. This is a comfort I’ve never known.

  The door to my bedroom at the end of the hall is open. The flickering light of the fire in the fireplace dances on the walls of the hallway, next to the open door.

  I begin making my way down the hallway, running my hand down the wall.

  This isn’t me … but it is me. I’m seeing this. I can feel the wall but I’m not doing this. I’m not in control. It’s like I’m locked inside myself, like before in the lake and in the living room.

  The warmth of the fireplace fills the room as I enter. There’s my magnificent four-poster bed. The settee sits next to the vanity. The ornate dresser is in the corner. On the mantle over the fireplace is a photo of myself, my wife, and my daughter.

  That’s not me. That’s not me in the photo. That’s not my family.

  I’m never going to leave. We’re never going to leave. It’s so simple. I know what I have to do. The woman won’t come in here. She got in once, for a second, but not anymore. I won’t allow her in here.

  With perfect calm, I walk over to the dresser. I run my fingers over the delicate carvings. I open the top drawer and pull out the derringer pistol. I open the drawer below and remove the bullets. I load them one by one and snap the cylinder closed, exactly as I remember it.

  I go to the bed.

  I can feel the gun in my hand. I can feel the weight but I’m helpless. I have no control. Stop! STOP!

  I lie down on the bed and rest my head on the pillow.

  I’m never going to leave this room. He’s never going to leave this room and he’s never going to find her.

  I raise the gun to my head and point the barrel at my temple.

  STOP! PLEASE!

  I smile, close my eyes and begin to apply pressure to the trigger.

  This is not the end. Only the beginning of perfection.

  “DAD!”

  It was Caitlyn, from somewhere downstairs.

  Rage courses through my body, searing, uncontrollable.

  I’m in control again.

  My eyes fly open.

  The black mist is hovering above me, pulsating, roiling. It suddenly streaks out the door.

  I’m lying in my bed. The fireplace is cold and dark. Dust has settled over everything. The only picture on the mantle is that of Nicole and I on our wedding day. I look towards the dresser. Both the top drawer and the one below it are open. I turn and see the gun in my hand, pointed at my head.

  I drop the gun and spring from the bed into the hall just as the black mist goes down the stairs, out of sight.

  I sprint down the hall to the stairs.

  “DAD!”

  Caitlyn is in the basement.

  I make it down the stairs to see the black mist go through the living room and dining room into the kitchen.

  It’s moving too fast. It’s going to reach her before I do.

  I turn the corner into the kitchen. The back door is open, as is the basement door.

  “Caitlyn!” I yell, racing down the basement stairs.

  The light is on.

  I reach the bottom of the stairs.

  Caitlyn is kneeling on the floor in the exact spot where I saw Katherine.

  The shadowy fog is behind her, like a beast waiting to strike.

  Caitlyn stands, facing the mist. She slowly turns to me. Her eyes are filled with terrified tears.

  “… Dad?” she chokingly whispers.

  “Caitlyn, don’t move.”

  “Dad, please. Don’t let it get m—”

  I take a step towards her.

  The mist bursts outwards. A split second before it envelops Caitlyn, there’s a brilliant flash of light, so blinding that I have to shield my eyes. I can feel the cold swirl around me.

  Everything goes quiet.

  I lower my arms.

  The black mist is gone.

  So is Caitlyn.

  I’m alone.

  “… Caitlyn?”

  I spin around and search the shadows.

  “Caitlyn?!”

  She’s not here.

  I quickly check the corners and crannies, calling her name.

  I run upstairs to the open back door, still calling her name, but there’s no response.

  She was here. I saw her.

  I run through the dining room and living room. I look behind every bit of furniture and in every possible hiding place.

  “Caitlyn?!”

  I run up to the second floor and check all the rooms. She’s here. She has to be here, somewhere.

  I end up in her room, almost unable to breathe. It’s like I’m having a heart attack and I’m still yelling her name. I can’t keep my hands still as I look around her r—

  There’s condensation on the mirror of her vanity.

  The air grows colder as I get nearer.

  I stand in front of the vanity and look in the mirror.

  My reflection isn’t there.

  But Katherine is.

  She’s wearing her soaked nightgown and her head is inclined towards the floor. Her wet hair hangs down, obscuring her face.

  The condensation on the lower half of the mirror is growing. I can see my breath in the air.

  “Where is Caitlyn?” I ask.

  There’s an excruciating silence.

  Katherine doesn’t move.

  Then, in the condensation, a line appears, drawn by a fing
er I can’t see, but can hear as it moves across the glass. The line become a letter, and then another letter, and another, written in a hand I’ve seen before on a whiteboard in a classroom.

  The message becomes clear.

  I start shaking my head and whimper, “No, no, no, no …”

  My phone rings.

  Shaking, I answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Daniel? Hi. It’s Mildred. I’m sorry to call so late, but is Caitlyn with you? I heard the door slam and it woke me up. I went to check on Caitlyn but she’s not here. Please. Please tell me she’s with you.”

  I can’t tell her what happened. I can’t tell her the truth.

  “Yeah,” I stammer. “She’s here.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. She got a little homesick.” I pray the unsteadiness in my voice won’t give me away.

  She blows a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God.”

  “She … uh … Yeah. Sorry she worried you. I told her she shouldn’t do that, but she was really shaken up.” I keep my eyes on the mirror.

  “It’s okay. I just wanted to know that she’s safe.”

  “She’s fine. She’s getting into bed now.”

  “Daniel, are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, she, uh, she startled me when she came home.” I hate lying to Mildred but I have to.

  “Okay. Her stuff is still here, if you want to pick it up tomorrow.”

  “I will. Thanks, Mildred. Again, I’m really sorry about that.”

  “It’s fine. As long as she’s safe. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  She hangs up.

  I begin taking in rapid gulps of air. I stare at the answer to my question, written in the fading condensation in the mirror …

  28

  Morning sunlight streams through the living-room window as I lift my head out of my hands. From my spot on what’s left of the couch, I glance around the room.

  The place looks like a bomb went off. The whole house looks like this.

  After hanging up with Mildred, I continued staring at the mirror in disbelief. Was I losing my mind or was I dreaming? I needed proof that what just happened had really happened. I went to the bedroom. The gun was there, lying on the bed, exactly where I had left it. I went downstairs. The back door was open, as was the basement. I checked the call log on my phone. There it was. Mildred had called me.