The Shock Box

by Jill Harris

  The spirits must be out of control, they were even creating false earthquakes to drive him mad. Branwell had to force Miss Winslow to leave before it was too late. "By God, you're the most irritating female I've ever known and you're no longer in my employ. I want you to leave. Pack your bags. Go. Right now."

  Adeline observed him with calm clarity.

  She could tell he was near to some kind of psychic breakthrough as her Aunt would put it. She registered the shadow of a day's beard on his jawline, the upstanding hair, the rings beneath his eyes, the bloody scratches on his face. He was obviously in great pain too. The Captain looked as though he'd been shipwrecked. His eyes were feral, moving from side to side as if he expected an enemy to jump out at him at any moment.

  Adeline took a deep breath and assessed the situation fast. The Captain was having medical crisis on all levels. Mentally, physically, and she suspected, spiritually.

  Here was a man who had grown up a lonely boy in a house he believed was full of ghosts. His mother took her own life. His father deserted him during his formative years to follow the commands of dead people. Branwell was lost in the torment of his own mind, and had almost died fighting for King and country.

  Yet nothing, she perceived, had filled the empty hole within him.

  The Captain did not really want her to leave. He just expected it. Like everyone else who ever got close to him. He was pushing her away to see what she'd do.

  What he wanted was for her to stand beside him throughout the madness. What he needed was for her to heal him. And that's exactly what she intended to do.

  "I cannot leave. You gave me two weeks to prove myself," she said. "And in that case, I must begin right away with your treatment."

  He glowered at her. "You're not listening. You have to go. If you don't I shall have my servants remove you."

  "Not until I've done my work."

  "Damn you to blazes," he yelled.

  "I see that you're in pain and believe me when I say that I can ease your pain. If you'll let me," she said.

  "Put the bag down," he said. His voice low and oddly calm.

  She moved into the room and placed it on the desk. He limped behind her, shut the door, came back to stand in front of her, and took her by the shoulders.

  A hollow ache inside him faded the moment he touched her. All the tension in his body loosened, and he became acutely aware of the beat of his own heart. Lord forgive him, but he wanted her. There and then.

  She did not flinch or pull away from him.

  He bent his head and touched his lips to hers, at first quite gently, and then pressing harder, daring her to deny him.

  Adeline did not want to deny him. Quite the opposite. She felt a rush of feminine pleasure, threw all caution to the four winds which howled all round this crumbling house of his.

  She gave in to her desire. Allowed herself to kiss him back. He parted his lips, exploring her mouth with his tongue and she was bold, heated, as she touched her tongue to his.

  His hands moved from her shoulders to her waist, pulling her body so close she could feel the taut muscles of his chest against her soft bosom. Ah, but it felt so right.

  She fisted her hands in his hair, lost in the moment, as if the two of them were floating upwards, away from all cares, into a place where all that mattered was pleasure.

  He smelled of musk and Pears soap. He tasted of coffee, whiskey and sugar.

  She felt him part her legs with his knee, and she could feel his need swelling against her through the fabric of her dress. Sensation flowed through her, and she deepened the kiss.

  Adeline did not resist as he moved his hands upwards to cup her breasts with both hands. Her heart pounded so hard it was almost painful, and it was as if a spark of fire flared up her spine from the deepest core of her pelvis.

  When he circled her nipples with his fingers, the fire inside seemed to burst out of her.

  Branwell's body trembled. His blood raced as though he was free of all care, thundering on the back of a wild horse. Miss Winslow's lips were so maddeningly soft. Her feminine curves so enticing. Yet there was so much power in the way she moved against him. A blade of passion seemed to shoot out from her and into him, enfolding him, rushing through him, engulfing him until his whole body trembled.

  He dropped his hands, and stepped back awkwardly.

  "What was that?" she said.

  "I must apologise. I couldn't help it. I had to touch you and I know you must think I am the worst kind of a man. Please forgive me."

  She shook her head. "Not that. I thought I heard someone shouting your name."

  For a brief moment, Branwell realised he had forgotten himself. He had been lost in her. Then, as if an echo which had previously gone unnoticed, now made itself known, he heard Hoxley yelling out for him.

  "Something"s wrong," he said. Turning, as the door flew open.

  Hoxley entered the room at a gallop. He glanced from Adeline to Branwell and back to Adeline. She was well aware that her face was flushed, her apron askew.

  "Sorry to disturb," Hoxley said. He was panting. "But the marble statue. It's fallen from its plinth. Smashed to pieces. And all the pots and pans are flying round the kitchen. We could hear boots marching in the courtyard but when we looked, nobody's out there. Mrs Hoxley has taken refuge in the pantry. Things ent right. Feels like the end of the world has come."

  At that moment, the chandelier in the hallway loosened from its mooring in the ceiling and crashed to the floor with the sound of a thousand glass beads breaking.

  Chapter 36

  With some trepidation, Adeline opened the door a crack, and peered out of the library into the hall.

  A piece of the roof where the chandelier had been attached had fallen along with the chandelier, smashing onto the hieros gamos mosaic, covering it in a mess of broken glass, twisted metal, and lumps of plaster. Jagged spikes of metal arms which once held lights stuck up from the ground like a line of soldiers.

  A thick iron chain which had secured the chandelier, snaked through the debris from which arose a sulphurous cloud of yellow dust. Adeline felt the grit of dust in her mouth. It tasted of ashes as if the fixtures had been burned instead of smashed.

  Coming from the front of house she heard the muffled sound of horses hooves clopping across the stoney flagstones of the courtyard. A horse whinnied outside the front door. This was not a good time for anyone to arrive at Raven's Nest, she thought.

  As she watched, one of the paintings of the Captain's ancestors dislodged itself from the wall and flew upwards towards the ceiling, then crashed to the ground in front of the library. Adeline jumped back, speechless in the face of so much destruction.

  It occurred to her that there was only one explanation for what was happening.

  The Captain had been telling the truth all along.

  Adeline could remain skeptical no longer. Her eyes were opened. This was real. She set her jaw.

  There really were ominous, other-worldly forces at work in the crumbling house, and all the facts including her encounter the previous night pointed towards some kind of ghostly haunting. A demon - or something else strong enough to cause serious structural damage.

  The Captain had not been deluded by table-tapping fraudsters, and if this were true then they were in mortal danger. As far as Adeline knew, all it would take was for one of those metal spikes once belonging to the chandelier to come rushing towards the Captain. She felt him come up behind her as if he wanted to go out into the hallway but she stepped in front of him, holding her carpet bag at chest height.

  Branwell had heard the horses too, and managed to push Miss Winslow behind him.

  She looked like she might struggle to protect him. Why on earth would she do that? He could not fathom her at all. He limped out into the hallway, swept his gaze over the ruined mosaic, turned and gave Miss Winslow one of his more formidable glares.

  She seemed undaunted by this, stepping up close to him, close enough for him to smell her ro
se-water scent, and stood bravely with her back against his.

  "Like this we can see what's coming at us from any direction," she said, her voice steely.

  "Keep holding your bag up like that," he said. "In case the books come for you."

  Some of the volumes of world history were already plummeting from the shelves, thudding to the rug where something appeared to be shredding them with a pair of invisible scissors, or claws.

  The sound of wailing and screaming echoed from the direction of the kitchen. Someone was banging on the front door, a series of loud, insistent knocks.

  Branwell wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. There was no time to lose, he had to keep everyone safe. He ran through a quick inventory of the household in his head.

  Hoxley sprinted out of the shadows towards the library, his face contorted with anxiety. The manservant came right up to Branwell, his thin legs quivering with fear.

  Branwell looked at Hoxley, raising his voice to be heard above the mayhem. "Is the maid in the kitchen with Mrs Hoxley?"

  "She is."

  "What about Roberts?"

  "He's at the stables."

  Branwell put his hand on Hoxley's shoulder. "Go to your wife and the maid. Get them out of the house and then go directly to the stables and prepare the horses. Take the tradesman's entrance, and take them to town with Roberts. Don't look back."

  Hoxley's eyes widened as he glanced at Miss Winslow who was still pressed against Branwell's back. "And the lady?"

  "I'll take care of her," Branwell said.

  Another painting took flight in the hall. It whirled high over the broken chandelier, finally coming down to smash itself against the doorframe of the library, bouncing off before it dived to the ground with a ripping of canvas as it skewered itself on a metal spike.

  "As long as you're sure?" Hoxley said.

  Branwell pushed the servant away from him. "I'm sure. Go."

  Hoxley fled out the door, across the hall, dodging falling artwork, and leaping over piles of detritus.

  Branwell felt something gnawing at his guts. As if sharp teeth were trying to eat their way out of him. A wave of nausea washed through him, and he tasted bile in his mouth. He staggered, righted himself and held up his arm to deflect a book away that was hurtling towards his eyes.

  This was no time to give in to pain. He spun round. Miss Winslow's face was smeared with streaks of dirt, and he grabbed her by the arm.

  "Time to get out of here," he said. "Drop the bag."

  "I can't."

  He knocked it out of her hand. "Later."

  "But it's..."

  Then he put both hands under her arms. She squealed with surprise. "Let me do this," he said. Then he hefted her over his left shoulder, knocking the wind out of her voice as she tried to protest. Arcs of agony shot through both his legs as he did so. He took a deep breath, willing himself to feel nothing.

  Miss Winslow was heavier than she looked, but he didn't care. "Have no fear," he said. "You're safe with me. I won't let them get you."

  He realised in that moment, that he would do anything to save her.

  Anything.

  He would carry her through flames. Through raging storms, and barrages of gunfire. He would die fighting hordes of demons to protect her. A surge of vigour flowed through him.

  He strode out into the hall through the clouds of dust, momentarily blinded as he fought his way through the swirling smoke. It was hard to see the way. But he had an unerring sense of direction.

  "You'll survive this day, Miss Winslow," he yelled over his shoulder. "I guarantee you that."

  Adeline bounced against the Captain's back in a most unladylike manner. She raised her head to look behind as the Captain stepped over the threshold. Her shock box had fallen out of the bag onto the floor, the lid sprung open, a storm of torn pages swirling over it. Every book in the library seemed to heave as one, then every single one of them dived from the shelves and thundered onto the floor.

  Time seemed to slow down considerably as they made their way across the hallway towards the massive oak doors. Adeline was aware that this was possibly the most frightening, and definitely the most embarrassing moment of her entire life. Her bottom was in the air, her legs dangling over the Captain's chest. She felt the strength of his arms across the back of her thighs as he held her tight against him. He moved forward, his deep voice roaring curses at the raging spirits.

  Adeline could hardly see anything in the yellow, whirling tunnel of smoke. Her eyes stung as if they were full of sand. She rubbed at them, then grabbed the back of the Captain's shirt to steady herself. The top half of her body lay flat against his back, and she noticed his shirt was damp with sweat.

  Adeline thought of Dante"s inferno, in particular the part where they climb from the underworld to the light above. She clung to the Captain, her eyes weeping from the yellow smoke.

  If anything happened to him, she would never leave him. Even if Satan himself reared up in front of her she knew she'd stay by the Captain's side. His bravery astounded her, and made her humble.

  Because he could have left her behind and saved himself so easily, despite his injuries.

  Instead, he chose to save her.

  Chapter 37

  Then, without warning, the destruction subsided. No more paintings fell, and the books stopped raining down. With one last whirl of yellow mist the fog of dust receded, and the smell of sulphur disappeared. The Captain moved forward across the hallway, his limp almost imperceptible despite her weight. Adeline guessed he was driven by that extra strength granted to those in danger, as glass crunched beneath his boots.

  She was not in an ideal position to see what was going on, but she could feel a drop in pressure, as if the atmosphere had been charged with a terrible storm which had now blown itself out. Her ears popped the same way they did when she cycled down a steep hill.

  Adeline spat grit from her mouth and coughed. Together, the two of them reached the front door, and the Captain set her down on her feet. She swayed a little and leaned against him to steady herself, blinking the dust out of her eyes.

  He took her hand, his great fingers closing over hers.

  Adeline turned to him. "What is happening?" she said.

  "There are always more things in heaven and earth than anyone ever dreams of," he said.

  Adeline patted down her hair, dismayed to find it had come undone, and the dust had made it stiff and large, like a giant puffball on top of her head. "I have to agree with you about that."

  He glared at her, and mumbled in a low, gruff voice. "Are you all right?"

  "I think so. How about you."

  "Never better."

  "Let's go into town." she said. "That must have been an earthquake of some kind. I'm afraid the rock on which your ancestors built their house is disintegrating."

  The Captain was close enough for her to smell the salt and musk of his sweat, yet she could hardly see his face since a new, pale swathe of mist grew densely about them.

  "That's not the cause of all this. Granite doesn't disintegrate and there's never been an earthquake in Dorset in living memory. You know as well as I do that there's only one thing in this house which can throw paintings from the walls."

  "I've tried. I really have. But I just can't believe in your demon," she said.

  Adeline felt cold beads of sweat breaking out on her dusty forehead. Her heart thundered in her ears. The Captain pulled her closer, put both hands on her waist. If anyone saw this, they might presume the worst of her, and she stepped away immediately losing sight of him.

  He grabbed for her, pulling her back to him.

  "You can't go anywhere. We're blind in this," he said.

  "I won't go. I can't. Not without you."

  The Captain pulled her hard against him until she could feel his heartbeat against hers. Her breath came in great gasps from the shock of their narrow escape, yet his embrace steadied her mind.

  "In this mist the path won't
be safe. I only hope the others got out in time. We have to stay here, but not in the house, we'll go to the stables," he said.

  She looked up at him. "Thank you. What you did..."

  "I couldn't lose you."

  Adeline wondered for a moment if he meant to kiss her once more. Her body ached for him in a way she had never known. Perhaps it was the danger which drove her to feel this way, although she was beginning to suspect it was much more than that. The effect he was having on her was too great, too profound.

  Perhaps all the talk of magic had some substance. Perhaps he had cast a spell upon her.

  His arms were round her, holding her tight but not suffocating her. Adeline felt hot tears filling her eyes. "I was so afraid you would be killed."

  "And I, you," he murmured.

  Branwell held Adeline's slim curves, and felt her tears soaking through his shirt. His heart sank at the thought that he would have to send her away, yet he knew he must. She didn't deserve to suffer because of him, and he couldn't risk her life for a moment longer.

  The fog enfolded them, shrouding everything in white. They stayed like that for a long while.

  Then he took her hand, opened the front door, and slowly they stepped down the stone steps. The house disappeared from sight behind them and it was as if they were floating in a world of mist. He looked down, shocked to find he couldn't even see his own feet.

  "Hold onto me," he said. "And don't let go. I don't know which way we're facing. We might walk right out the gate and tumble over the side. It's going to be impossible to find the stables so we must retrace our steps, and find our way back to the main house."

  "Do you often sea mists as thick as this?"

  "Never."

  She fell silent as they felt along the wall until they found the open door, and stepped inside. The house was eerily quiet.

  Then the sound of hooves on flagstones made Branwell turn as two figures rode up to the entrance, materializing like ghosts out of the miasma.

  Branwell pushed Adeline behind him. As they came close enough for him to feel the horses breathing on his face, they slipped from their mounts. One seemed little more than a child. The other, a woman with waves of fair hair worn loose, was taller than most men. They seemed like only shadows, grey shapes in the mist.