by Kate Danley
Mrs. Nan helped her into her white cotton gown and extinguished the gas lamps in the room. Clara put her head upon her pillow, and as soon as the door closed, let the tears fall as they had every night for six months. Sometimes she felt as if Thomas were so close, he was almost in the room with her. But he was not here. She tried so hard to chase every shadow of him away and yet, as she lay there in the darkness, she could not help the memories of him which filled her mind. She could not keep away the pain.
She closed her eyes and hoped for dreams of reunion, of warmth and comfort. Too many nights passed with darkness, with confusing images of chasing something down a dark hallway and never being able to find it, whatever it was.
But tonight, as she dreamt of running down that same dark hallway, she thought she heard someone softly whispering her name, someone calling out, "Clara."
It was enough to make her open her eyes and sit up in bed.
The room was frigid, so cold that Clara could see her breath before her face. She shivered and clutched the bedcover to her chin. She was not sure what was real and what was not. She could see the glowing embers in the grate, and yet, the room felt like February. The curtains blew gently and the moon bathed everything in an unearthly blue light. She leapt out of bed, sure that somehow one of the windows must have come open. But they were all closed and locked.
And then the moonlight disappeared, and with it, the heat returned. Clara looked around, becoming more and more aware of her surroundings. She pinched herself and was reassured of her reality. It had all been a dream, some strange night terror. Sleep walking was almost a nightly occurrence in the weeks after Thomas's death, but she thought she had moved on. She tried to comfort herself with the fact she was now awake and everything was fine, but she was filled with a strange sense of foreboding. She looked over to the window and touched it, as if to convince herself that it was closed.
She walked back over to the bed and climbed beneath the covers. There were no strong arms there to soothe her, to tell her she was safe and all she needed to do was close her eyes and the morning would come. Though she tried to seek out sleep, it seemed to have decided that she would not get a second visit. Instead, Clara was left staring at the ceiling all night, sadly realizing that despite all her efforts, nothing had changed.
3
"Did you sleep well, ma'am?" Mr. Willard asked.
Clara sat in the dining room. She tested the head of the tea Mr. Willard had just poured. Mrs. Nan made her a most excellent breakfast. Clara was sure it must have been to try and show her new mistress all that she was capable of. Clara wished that she were not so tired so that she could be more appreciative. She took a bite from her toast. "Unfortunately, no. I had the strangest dream," she replied, "and it kept me up the rest of the night."
"Really?" he said with polite sympathy.
"I dreamt someone called my name, and then that one of the windows was open. In this dream, my room was so frightfully cold, it felt like going into a winter snowstorm without a wrap. It seemed so real, I actually got out of bed to close the pane, but the window was closed."
Mr. Willard fumbled the tongs, and they clanked upon the platter. His face turned red in embarrassment. "Apologies."
"None needed, Mr. Willard."
He brought the plate over. "This house can become quite drafty at night," he said as she helped herself to some eggs. "I shall make sure that we heat your bed extra warm tonight."
"Oh, it is quite all right. I am afraid that since my late husband's death, sleep has not been my friend. The fact I rested at all is a sign of the comfort and safety you and Mrs. Nan have made me feel here."
She wondered how cruel his former employer had been, for just those few kind words made him practically beam with pride. He was quick to hide it, but she saw. He immediately seemed to want to prove her faith well-founded and fussed. "Still, it will not do at all. We shall make sure to send you to bed with warm milk tonight and see if we can't chase away those dreams."
"That would be lovely," Clara said. She pushed back from the table. "Please tell Mrs. Nan that breakfast was wonderful and she has set the bar quite high. Now, I feel the need for a bit of a stroll. If you will please excuse me."
"Of course, ma'am." Mr. Willard followed her to the door. From out of nowhere, he somehow had her hat, parasol, gloves, and purse in hand and ready. He passed them one-by-one to her as she put them on. "Shall we expect you home for lunch?"
Clara stared outdoors, unsure of her answer. She realized she had no place to be. No one to visit. No errands to run. All was taken care of, and she wondered if she should even go outside at all. It would be so much easier to close the shades and sit in the darkness. She looked over at Mr. Willard, and realized that she did not want such a kind and caring soul to see her in such weakness. Already she knew that he would not let her hide. He would take her gloomy spirit personally, as some sort of failing on his part, and that would not do at all. She managed a stiff smile, as if somehow she could cover the terror she felt about finding a way to pass all the hours ahead of her. "No... no, I believe that I shall be out all day. I shall return tonight for dinner," she replied.
He gave her a bow. "Very well. We shall be sure to have something warm and delicious waiting for you by six o'clock."
She nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Willard."
And then she stepped out into the sunlight.
4
The hours seemed to stretch inexorably before her, each moment ticking by painfully slow. Usually, she would just lie in bed, waiting for another day to pass. She had not even realized that it was spring. She wandered down to the public park, buying herself a bag of crumbs to feed to the ducks. They seemed appreciative and clamored about her until the bag was empty, and then were gone as quickly as they appeared. She watched as couples strolled and children played. She slipped through them like a ghost. None even acknowledged her presence. Her gown of black seemed a camouflage which hid her from joy-filled eyes. She tried to find interest in gazing upon the blooming tulips and daffodils. She wandered into the zoo, but the bears and tigers were sleeping in their cages. She sat upon a bench and realized that it was barely noon.
She left the park and walked along the boulevard, its wide lanes filled with trolley cars and hansom cabs. There were shops whose windows were filled with trinkets, but nothing which tempted her to go in. She was caught in a crowded clump of businessmen as the lunch hour struck and, uncaring, let herself be swept along. She could barely see over their shoulders, when suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man hurry by.
“Thomas?” she whispered. She knew it could not be him, but this man’s shape, his coloring, his carriage... for a moment she wondered if Thomas’s death could have been all a terrible misunderstanding. She rushed to catch up, trying to push her way politely through the throng. But by the time she broke free, he was gone.
Her heart fell as she stood there, a passerby jostling her elbow. She lifted her eyes as she tried to force down the disappointment, and they fell upon the marquee for a vaudeville house. It seemed a godsend. For the cost of a single coin, she could sit quietly in a chair for as long as she wished with no one to trouble her. She would have a good answer when Mr. Willard or Mrs. Nan asked how she spent her day. Whether she was amused by the acts or not made no difference. She could escape, she could hide in the crowd, and be as alone as she wished in plain sight.
Gladly, she paid the booth and clutched her ticket. She walked into the lobby and purchased a paper cone filled with peanuts. She walked into the theater with its velvet seats and curtains. It was busy, but by no means full. She found a seat in the back and far from any other guests. She sat down, feeling as if she could breathe for the very first time all day.
The performers were talented, first a brother-and-sister duo who sang and danced their way across the stage. Then an acrobat troop that tumbled and juggled. A diva stepped into the limelight and sang a song of sorrow. Clara could tell the woman had no idea what it meant.
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The master of ceremonies took the stage after the diva, clapping enthusiastically as he tried to rally the audience from their stupor. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, we ask that those faint of heart leave the premises. Our next act shall tear aside the veil of life and death, shall reveal to you the mysteries of the world beyond! Please join me in welcoming one of the most powerful mediums of our age, Wesley Lowenherz!"
A man stepped onto the stage. He was tall, with a square jaw and broad shoulders. He had auburn curly hair which extended into the longer sideburns that were all the rage in fashionable circles. Beyond that, Clara could not make out his face. The footlights threw strange shadows upon him and the greasepaint morphed his features. There was something about him, though. Something strange yet familiar. It was not his appearance, it was him. It made no sense, but Clara sat forward in her chair.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Wesley began. "I come before you to reunite you with loved ones passed. To answer your questions of life and death. I come not to bring pain, but to bring healing, to give hope to the hopeless and to let you know you are not alone." He lifted his forefingers to either side of his temples and closed his eyes.
Clara's heart caught in her throat. She knew what he was going to say before he said it, but sat paralyzed as the words came out.
"Is there someone here who has lost a loved one? A gentleman perhaps? I am sensing a letter. ‘T’. A name that begins with ‘T’?"
It was all that Clara could do to not leap from her seat, to beg him to tell her more. It was equally as impossible to keep from fleeing the theater, to run from this man who could see more than what a man should see. She did not want to share her loneliness and misery before a paying crowd, those who would dismiss a message from her Thomas as nothing but a charlatan's trick. And yet, if it was her Thomas, if it was her one opportunity to speak to him when he left her so all alone... She was frozen by fear and uncertainty.
"A gentleman whose name begins with a ‘T’?"
She felt her hand beginning to raise, the ache to call out that yes, it was her, this message was for her, rose in her throat, but just as she summoned the courage, a woman close to the stage stood up. "Toby? Is it my Toby come to say hello to his old mum?"
The man held out his hand. "Indeed, Madame! Toby! Please, join me on the stage so that I may give you the message he has traveled from the grave to bring to you!"
Clara did not know whether the feeling which struck her heart was relief or terrible sadness. She clapped dutifully with the rest of the audience as the old woman toddled up the stairs. The rest of the act was a blur as Clara gathered her things, suddenly desperate to be away from there.
She rose from her seat and made her way to the aisle. Just as she was about to leave, Wesley held out his hands. "Wait! Another message has come!"
She turned and it seemed as if he were looking straight at her, even though she knew he could not see into the darkness of the audience beyond the haze of the footlights. Still, he seemed to almost lock eyes with her as he said, "There is a woman here tonight. You know who you are. And your loved one says, 'Do not fear to live and love again, for watching your sadness is worse than death. Do not die while you are still alive, my love.'"
And with that, Clara fled.
5
She arrived home in a daze. She knew that Mr. Willard spoke with her, that Mrs. Nan prepared a lovely dinner, that somehow she was led up to her room and dressed for bed. Mrs. Nan ran a metal pan filled with coals over her sheets to make them toasty, and a warm glass of milk sat on the bed table which she dutifully drank. She lay down, the words of that stage medium still ringing in her head. She could barely remember his name, and yet the way he looked at her, the way he knew... she could not believe that the message was for anyone but her. She could not believe that it was anything but a message from Thomas.
He wanted her to live and love again.
"How, my love?" she asked the darkness. "How do you expect me to go on without you?"
But tonight, she did not cry herself to sleep as she had every night for the past six months. Tonight, she curled on her side and thought of the words given to her. If Thomas was here beside her, she would never wish to trouble him, to make him feel that her sadness was worse than death.
She did not realize that she fell asleep. Instead, she fell into the dream with Thomas's words repeating themselves again and again in her mind.
And then she saw him. She opened her eyes and he was sitting in the chair by the fire, watching her sleep. He looked like he did when they first met, so young and strong. His dark blonde hair was combed neatly, the sides short from where she had trimmed it herself. He was muscle and sinew in the smoldering embers. She could gaze upon him forever, at his high cheekbones and strong nose and perfectly square jaw. She thought every inch of him perfection, even that terrible mustache she always teased that they must shave someday.
"I miss you," she whispered.
He smiled and in that smile was all the love that they had shared together over the years. "Watching your sadness is worse than dying. Do not die while you are still alive, my love. Do not fear to live and love again, Clara."
"I knew that it was you," she said. "I knew you were trying to talk to me earlier."
"Then listen," he replied.
"I do not want to live without you," she confessed.
He crossed to the bed, but it did not move as he sat upon the mattress next to her. "Love again, and soon, my Clara. Have no fear of letting me go."
"It hurts."
"Then let someone help heal your pain. Let someone remind you why living can be a joy. Let someone see that spark of yours that I found irresistible. Love. And know that it is what I want for you..." He reached out, as if to touch her cheek. "Live... and love... for me..."
"I shall try..." she whispered, aching for just one moment more.
But before he could reach her, he disappeared. Instead, she was running, running down that same dark hallway. Only this time, a terrible wind was blowing, was grasping at her and trying to knock her off her feet. She knew there were things in the darkness. She could see their red, glowing eyes. She could make out their terrible shapes. But still she ran.
Suddenly, a feminine voice cut through the terror. "Clara," the girlish voice called. "Clara, I need your help!"
Clara stopped in the maze, listening for the voice to lead her where she needed to go.
"Clara..." came the whisper again.
Clara opened her eyes. The room was bathed in a dim blue light, almost too dim to see. Clara sat up in her bed and asked, "Who said that?"
The form appeared as if Clara was looking at the surface of a glassy lake and something was floating up from the bottom. As it became clearer, the blue glow in the room became stronger until Clara could see everything as if it were bright as day. But as the light grew, the temperature dropped, and Clara found herself shivering and her eyes watering from the cold. Still the form came until Clara could see it was a girl with a face as round and pale as the moon. She was younger than Clara, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old. She was plump and healthy, dressed in a gauzy purple dress, but her skin was unearthly white. Her strawberry blonde hair was braided and pinned to her head, and she looked at Clara with shy uncertainty.
It was at this moment that Clara realized her eyes were open and they were actually seeing this strange apparition. It wasn't just some dream. She crawled to the edge and looked down. This stranger was floating.
Clara screamed.
She leapt out of bed and ran into the hallway. Almost immediately, she heard pounding steps from the floors below. Mr. Willard and Mrs. Nan raced towards her, Mr. Willard carrying a fireplace poker and Mrs. Nan carrying a light.
"What is it, ma'am?" he asked, ready to face whatever had made Clara scream.
Clara pointed at her room, her heart pounding, unable to form complete sentences. "There is a girl. She is dressed in purple. She is floating. In my room!"
Mr. Willard and Mrs
. Nan looked at one another, exchanging a strange glance. Mr. Willard took the lamp, squared his shoulders and walked into the room. Mrs. Nan scooped Clara into her arms to give her comfort, and Clara was grateful for the warmth. Mr. Willard came out, the poker lowered and his stance much more relaxed. "I looked in every corner and checked everywhere, ma'am. I believe your midnight visitor has gone."
Clara looked at Mrs. Nan in confusion and walked into the room. Mr. Willard had spoken the truth. There was no one there. She turned to the two. "But I saw her!"
Mrs. Nan patted Clara's hand and led her to bed. She helped her get her legs under the covers and tucked her in. She brushed back Clara's hair and said, "I know you did. She was just a dream, though. Go to sleep and try to forget all about her. I have a feeling she will not be back tonight."
Clara stared at where the girl had stood. "I know she was here. I saw her. She was right there."
Mrs. Nan and Mr. Willard made for the doorway. "Of course you did," Mrs. Nan reassured. "We'll figure it all out in the morning."
And then the two closed her door.
Clara lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She wasn't one to tell tales, to be frightened by nightmares. She wondered if she was losing her mind, if perhaps it had all been too much and now she was not only condemned to this living, but condemned to hallucinations and flights of fancy.
She rolled over so that she did not have to look at where the girl stood. Try as she might, though, she was unable to fall asleep. The girl's pleas for help rang in her ears as true as when the girl spoke them. Clara kept glancing over to check to see if it was just a trick of the darkness, but the girl did not reappear and everything seemed as it was.
