Maplecroft

by Cherie Priest

  I could ask him about them. What they looked like, what carnage had actually occurred.

  Not yet, of course. Not yet.

  But it feels like . . . it might be worth the risk to court his friendship and confidence. Gently. Slowly. Cautiously. If I approach it carefully, he could become our greatest ally.

  Our only one, if I’m to be honest.

  • • •

  Another note, recorded here so I do not forget. (And I’ll transfer these to my lab books downstairs later, when I’ve had time to think on them more thoroughly.)

  Is it possible that the creatures are spreading the sickness? Could it be some strange ichor they leave in their wake, or share with their oozing skin? Is this how these creatures reproduce, by sickening a host until the host evolves into that final, disgusting state?

  Maybe, but if so, you’d think that Emma or I would be well contaminated by now, unless my improvised defenses have worked better than I’ve known. All along I’ve wondered if I wasn’t wasting my energy with the folklore, the charms, the nails, the lines and symbols . . . but so far, nothing insidious has found its way inside the house; and so far, neither Emma nor myself is any sicker than we ever were, back at the Borden homestead.

  Then again, that might not be fully true of Emma. But I have no way of knowing if her state is the result of the creatures and their poison, or some unfortunate, unrelated ailment. Either way, our proximity to the first bad outbreak can’t have helped her condition.

  I wonder if she knows how closely I watch her, every day. Every time I brush her hair, every time I bathe her . . . I check her skin inch by inch, and I watch her weight, her shape, her eyes, for some incremental change brought about by whatever foul agent has settled into our lives.

  Thus far, I’ve seen nothing but an ordinary woman, sick in an ordinary way. Daily I pray it remains so.

  • • •

  I made some offhanded comment to her about this; I told her that of course, yes, absolutely, I pray for her condition to hold steady at worst, and improve at best. I am a loving sister, after all, and what else would I pray for?

  She shook her head. “Who are you praying to?”

  I was taken aback. “The Lord in Heaven, same as any other God-fearing Christian.”

  Wryly, she told me, “This isn’t what our library would suggest.”

  “So I read about the faiths of others. Their beliefs pose no threat to my own.”

  “You’re looking for magic, Lizzie. God doesn’t give us magic, only science.”

  “Last century’s magic is this year’s science,” I argued.

  “Point taken, but by now I am forced to wonder who you think is listening, when you offer up these petitions. The Lord? Some papist saint? Some old goddess, left over from darker times, in darker corners of the earth?”

  “I’m praying to anyone who listens,” I told her. “The Divine has many names. I doubt He cares which one I call. Or She, for all we know. Doesn’t the Bible say we were created in God’s image, male and female?”

  “You’re treading on dangerous ground.”

  “We’re living on dangerous ground. And we can’t seem to leave it, so I’ll work on making it less dangerous—which, yes, is a dangerous effort in itself.” Exasperated with both her and myself, I threw up my hands. “I’m not sure what you want from me, Emma. I am doing my best, and that’s all that can be asked of me.”

  “No one is asking more. But I fear for you, out there, downstairs, fighting monsters. You touch these things, and they touch you back.”

  BUT NETTLE SHANT HAVE NOTHING

  Nance O’Neil

  APRIL 16, 1894

  I arrived in Fall River around noon, having caught a ride from the train station with a nice young man who’d seen me in Hamlet last year. I could hardly believe he remembered me, much less recognized me now, but such is the power of theater, I suppose. There may not be any money in it, but there’s a certain kind of renown for the right kind of girl. And once in a while, that renown translates to a free ride into town, and to a loved one’s house.

  The young man in question . . . oh, I’ve already forgotten his name. Francis? Frederick? Something like that. You’d think that someone who earns a living memorizing pages upon pages of other people’s words would have an easier time remembering other people’s names, but you’d be mistaken on that point. I’ve always been terrible about it. Likely, I always will be.

  But this young man, “F,” was so wide-eyed and scandalized when I told him where I was going. I couldn’t decide whether to be offended or amused, so I settled on amused. Lizbeth is the kindest, wisest, most caring soul in the world, and I’ve never before cared about what the papers have to say. Why start now?

  (Knowing what the papers say and caring about it . . . those are two different things.)

  Emma I could live without, but I won’t, because Lizbeth loves her. You have to love your sisters, and if that’s not some kind of real law, it’s one of those moral laws that my father went on and on about for years. I don’t know if Lizbeth would choose to love Emma otherwise. I wouldn’t, but that’s just me.

  She’s a cold thing, that Emma. Strange, really. Her sister is so warm.

  But warm or otherwise, my beloved is up to something. Strange matters are afoot here at Maplecroft, and I get the distinct impression that the sisters are hiding something from me, if not lying to me outright. I’m not an idiot; I can see that things have been rearranged, and there are nails all over the floor in the doorways, and plants growing in odd pots, in odder places. For some reason, some doors are locked which otherwise used to be open. In corners there linger strange charms, snow-white grains of salt, and the faint odor of burned sage.

  I asked Lizbeth about the locked doors, since that seemed like the easiest place to begin an investigation. She laughed, and it was worse acting than I’ve ever seen, which is saying something; but then she compounded the lie by telling me, “The cellar door’s always been locked. It scarcely opens, and so we leave it shut. Anyway, it keeps the damp downstairs, where it belongs.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the cellar, though I know you have wine and a laboratory down there—which you steadfastly refuse to show me. But what about that room at the end of the hall? Isn’t it a library, or an office of some sort?”

  “Storage, is all. My father’s old things. I keep meaning to go through it, sort out the whole mess, and donate his papers or belongings where appropriate . . . but I’ve been quite tired, and I didn’t care to look at it any longer.”

  “So you’re entombing his memories, locking him away in the afterlife. Like . . . like some hapless victim in a Poe story.”

  “My father is dead,” she said flatly, no hint of the very false laugh left in her cheeks. “And some days, I can scarcely manage my own affairs—much less tend to the ones he left behind. The bills are paid, at least, and nothing else is pressing. It can stay where it is, for now. Let it gather dust and let the papers molder away. It’ll save me the trouble of sorting them later, if I can just sweep them into the bin.”

  But I pushed onward. “What about the other door, on the first floor? The sunroom, wasn’t it? Or something like that?”

  Without so much as a pause, she said, “The other night we had a storm, and a pair of the old windows broke—and the frames with them. We’ve sent for a man to repair them, but he can’t arrive until next month. So we’ve covered the holes as best we can, but rodents and birds have a knack for finding their way inside. The door is an extra measure, that’s all.”

  I would’ve bet my soul she wasn’t telling the truth. “And the attic stairs?”

  “One of the chimneys needs work. We’ve been expressly told to leave it alone, until the mason arrives, along with the window man. Loose bricks. Bats and the like, you know. Squirrels.”

  “And that is the most ridiculous answer yet!” I struggled to keep from yelling at her, or crying at her, or generally being the dramatic idiot her sister imagines me. But of all
the little oppressions I hate the most, being lied to is right at the top of the list. It’s disrespectful. It suggests I can’t be trusted with the truth, whether to bear it, understand it, or keep it to myself.

  Lizbeth stepped close to me then, so very near that I could see her pupils contract when I looked down into her eyes. She’s almost half a head shorter than I am, but slender and tough where I’m made of rounder curves. I put my arms around her and embraced her, pulling her lean shape against my softer one.

  She leaned up to speak into my ear, and I felt her lips against my hair. “You know how I adore you, but I don’t think you know the lengths to which . . .” She stopped herself, and placed her head on my shoulder—so that when she spoke again, her mouth brushed the nook where my throat and collarbone meet. “You are mine and I love you. And I’m sorry if you feel I’m being dishonest.”

  Her hand slipped to the small of my back, and we stood there together like a man and woman dancing slowly, to thoughtful music.

  Somewhat mollified, I put my chin atop her head. “But I feel you’re being . . . not wholly truthful. Something is bothering you, and you’re keeping it from me.”

  “Many things are bothering me. It comes with the territory of being . . . me.”

  “That isn’t what I mean. And if I thought that’s all it was, I would leap with you into the nearest carriage and we could ride back to Boston or New York—and you could forget about this place, for as long as you wanted.”

  “I couldn’t leave Emma,” she mumbled, and I knew that already. Some fierce, bitter, tiny, hell-bound part of my soul wondered how much longer the invalid could possibly survive, with or without her sister’s money and attention. One day Lizbeth would be free of her, surely? God would see to it, if no one else.

  But I remained stalwart, and I hope I sounded kind when I said, “That’s why I’d never do such a thing. What would become of her if I spirited you away?”

  She lifted her head and now she was smiling. The smile reached her eyes, and it looked perfectly wicked. “You think you could spirit me away? As easy as that?”

  “I’m quite confident.” I grinned back, wondering whether this was some kind of dare, and immediately daydreaming about it. “I outweigh you by forty pounds, if by a single stone. And look at me, darling: sturdy Midwestern farmer’s stock.”

  “I thought your father was a preacher.”

  “A man of many hats,” I assured her, and cuddled her close again. Emma was upstairs napping, and would not interrupt us. “So there’s one tiny thing he and I have in common, if you squint at it from the right angle.”

  “You do have some lovely hats,” she murmured.

  And then we heard a bell ringing upstairs, so I was wrong—and Emma could interrupt us after all.

  I told Lizbeth I’d make us all some tea while she tended to her sister’s needs. I’m a grown woman who can find her way around a kitchen. I don’t need to be entertained every waking moment; I can absolutely contribute to the care and maintenance of a household.

  With a kiss I sent her upstairs, and then I went to the kitchen. I located the tea and all its accoutrements just fine, enjoying the size and well-stocked condition of the large room, lined with cabinets and shelves, offering a space for everything. Even when I’m not sleeping behind the stage, my own household is markedly smaller, and I share it with three or four other girls as often as not. (And Marcus, but let’s be honest—he almost counts as one of us. It’s not as if we’ve allowed Peter to come set up a cot beside us.)

  I waited for the kettle to boil, an interminable task that never seems half so short as it ought to. I tapped one foot and peered around the room, still confident that the two upstairs were hiding something from me, but I had no idea what it could possibly be.

  A thought sprang through my head: Maybe she’s being courted. Is there a suitor? And then the thought sprang right back out again, because if I’d let it stay, it might’ve made me jealous and angry.

  Emma already thinks I’m jealous and angry. I won’t give her the satisfaction of being right.

  Besides, a suitor wouldn’t fit all the puzzle pieces I’ve found lying about this stately home. I extended my foot and ran the toe of my shoe across the doorway that led onto the back porch. A dozen nails were pounded right into the wood, with such fervent enthusiasm that it’s a wonder the door would open or close at all. Maybe that was the idea. Maybe they’re trying to keep someone out. Better locks would seem like a stronger approach.

  Though this does raise an interesting question. If not a suitor . . . perhaps it’s someone more menacing. Is someone causing her grief, here in town or somewhere at large? Not everyone thought she should’ve been exonerated, but that’s because not everyone knows her as I do. If someone has been harassing her, I won’t stand for that nonsense. Not for a second. Didn’t she have a wayward brother or some such? I’d swear she mentioned him once, and without a drop of fondness.

  The kettle hadn’t popped, so I let myself seethe and let my mind wander.

  She could be receiving threats in letters, in telegrams. Or they might arrive in person, but wouldn’t even a harasser have better manners than that? Most men are cowards, and they’re happiest to do their badgering through some other medium. Otherwise, they wait until they can get you alone, and I guess that’s one good thing about having Emma around. Lizbeth is never alone.

  The theater has taught me so much. Not all of it about acting.

  I took another look around the place—just the kitchen, and the corridor beyond it—and I saw yet more nails driven into the floor here and there, which didn’t make a great deal of sense, but the smell of sage, and the little bundles tied up over the doorways . . . they reminded me of something: a brief run off- Broadway (very off-Broadway) in New Orleans. That city is a superstitious place like none other, and all the actresses were in love with it. We’re a superstitious lot ourselves, worse than anybody, I should think—so it’s not as if I’m casting stones.

  Speaking of stones, there was a small dish on the windowsill over the sink, and in it were three very shiny brown stones with clear marbling. Quartz, polished into gems, I think.

  Yes, in New Orleans. I’d seen such things there.

  My eyes rose to the entryway that separated the kitchen from the corridor leading to the house’s interior. Another nail, this one above the frame, overhead—and hanging from that nail, I spotted a small bag made of what looked like red felt, no bigger than my thumb.

  Beside the sink was a small step stool. I dragged it into position, stepped atop it, and reached up for the little red bag.

  My arms are long, and when I combined them with my height, I reached it easily. I squeezed it between my fingers and whatever was inside felt crunchy and light. Herbs? Papers? More tiny stones?

  I caught a faint trail of scent, caused when I disturbed the bag and pinched its contents. Because I could not sniff the strange object without pulling it down from its position, I sniffed at my fingers instead. They smelled like cinnamon and something green. Not absinthe, not quite. Perhaps straightforward old anise.

  The kettle blew behind me, startling me almost off the stool. Maplecroft is such a funny house, such a big, empty, warm, drowsy place. Even when everyone is home.

  I stepped down, kicked the step aside, and retrieved the kettle with a hand towel left beside the stove. I set everything to steep and waited again. Another two or three minutes by myself, and then I could carry the tray upstairs.

  More time to wonder in the big house’s spell of silence.

  But then . . . was it silence, really? When I listened hard, I thought I could hear Lizbeth upstairs, a faint rumble of her voice sifting down through the ceiling. And maybe, just barely, the fussing response of Emma, needing heaven knew what this time. Probably needing for me to leave, but she can’t have that. Not yet. All I’ll give her is tea.

  And I heard something else, too. Not Emma, I mean.

  This was something else . . . a dull roar—a rumbling
, rolling, washing sound that came with an added whisper. Not quite the ocean. Not quite a seashell, held up fast to my ear. Not that sound exactly, but something like it.

  We were close to the seashore, but not that close. I couldn’t have heard the tide from the kitchen, nor even the street outside. Something else, then? A distant railroad train? No, not that, either.

  The longer I stood there, letting the tea steep . . . the more I thought it must be coming from the cellar. There it was. A rushing, swishing, soothing noise.

  Coming from behind the door.

  I remember putting down the hand towel, for I’d held it all this time that I stood there, letting my imagination run wild. I set it on the counter, I’m almost positive—though I later saw it on the floor, and wasn’t sure how it’d gotten there. I went to the cellar door and held my ear against it, thinking again of a seashell and all its auditory gifts. I was listening for the ocean. For answers. For something, and it was there, and I heard it; I’d bet my life on it. I’d bet Lizbeth’s life, and that’s saying something more.

  “Nance!”

  She said my name loudly, and it startled me. I jumped, a feeling of childish guilt washing through my chest, though I’d done nothing wrong. “Lizbeth!” I said her name back, with mock drama. “You startled me! Why would you shout like that?”

  Her eyes looked old, very old. One way or another, she was about to lie to me.

  “I called your name two or three times, and you didn’t hear me. What are you doing? I thought you were making tea, but look—” She tapped the kettle with the back of her hand, quickly—to judge the temperature. “It’s gone cool.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It couldn’t possibly . . .” I’d only been standing there a minute, if that long. I stepped toward the counter and slipped on that damn towel, almost falling headlong into the sink. I felt dizzy, and drained. Like I’d misplaced something—something I couldn’t remember having lost. “Lizbeth, what’s in the cellar?” I asked, too dizzy to play whatever game she’d crafted in this place.