Rebecca's Ghost

by Marianne Petit

Did he visit her now?

  Nervous, she twirled a lock of hair in her finger and stared at the doorknob.

  Her breath held.

  Her gaze strained against the darkness.

  The only sound came from her pounding heart and a branch tapping her windowpane.

  Quietly she got out of bed, donned her robe and candle and peeked outside.

  Her distorted image, large, looming, flit upon the wall.

  Either someone toyed with her, or a phantom did walk the halls.

  Her mind a crazy mixture of curiosity and apprehension Elizabeth hesitated, then, with a glance to Mozart, who slept soundly at the foot of her bed, made her way into the darkness.

  The floorboards creaked beneath her bare feet, confirming her suspicions that someone had stood beyond her door.

  Her gaze darted to the dark corners.

  Her shadow slithered up the wall.

  Her heart raced.

  Go back to bed.

  She inched further down the hall.

  ‘Twould be the intelligent choice.

  The silence entombed her.

  She paused.

  A chill at her back, a strange sense of being followed, spiked the hair on the nape her neck.

  She pivoted around. What she saw out of the corner of her eye stole her breath away.

  A shimmering apparition in a white dress disappeared around the corner.

  Her gait quick, Elizabeth continued down the hall to the wide stairwell and two at a time, made her way up the steps. Her thoughts ripping through her, she could barely focus over the rush of blood surging to her brain.

  At the top she hesitated, her heart pounding. Could it really have been a ghost or was her imagination playing with her?

  Seeing no one, not sure whether to turn left, or right, Elizabeth pondered her next move.

  From out of nowhere, Rebecca stood at the end of the hall.

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened in disbelief. Though she wanted to flee, her feet remained rooted.

  Rebecca stared at her, as though sizing up her reaction, then beckoned Elizabeth follow.

  Without further thought, Elizabeth edged her way down the dark winding hall.

  She passed a door on her right then on her left, but kept on walking focusing her attention straight ahead.

  Her shoulders and neck felt taut. Her breathing clipped and her mind raced with the knowledge that she was being led through the halls by a ghost.

  Rebecca disappeared through a door at the far end of the hall.

  Elizabeth quickly followed. She tripped on the edge of her nightdress and caught herself.

  Her hair tumbled over her shoulder. Excitement, trepidation, knotted her chest. She breathed, quick, short.

  The ghostly imaged disappeared through another door.

  Twirling a strand of hair around her finger, Elizabeth glanced behind her, not certain if she should follow. Curious as to what lay behind the door, she reached for the knob and grasped the cool metal.

  A floorboard groaned.

  Soft silken fur brushed against her leg.

  Elizabeth’s heart leapt.

  Her fingers slipped from the knob.

  Giving her cat a stern glance, she took several deep calming breaths and once again reached for the handle.

  Chapter Eight

  As was his routine, Philip sat in the parlor with a glass, of brandy, in his hand.

  Katherine’s declaration, of his promiscuous behavior, though he believed false, played on his mind.

  The woman would stop at nothing to marry him and knowing of her intention, he would not, no matter how inebriated, fall prey to her schemes.

  Marriage to anyone was out of the question.

  He took a gulp of wine, and stared into the crackling fire.

  No woman, of sound mind, would tolerate a man who was less than a man; whose inadequacies left them wanting.

  A woman’s soul could be fragile; easily broken by the consent strain thrust upon them by barbarous traditions deeming them only suitable for breeding.

  His fingers rapped absentmindedly with continual rhythm against the polished tabletop beside him.

  Katherine, though ‘twas highly unlikely she wanted a babe to suckle her breasts, did not love him, only his money.

  Again, he took a gulp.

  But, if she knew of his vow never to father a child, to never be able to fully satisfy her, even Katherine, would grow to despise him.

  Swirling the warm liquid on his palate, his thoughts strayed to Elizabeth, a woman so far removed from the likes of Katherine and her manipulative ways.

  Elizabeth’s grace and natural beauty, the eternal quality that surrounded her, soothed his spirit.

  He knew very little about her, yet for some unknown reason he felt compelled to divulge truths he could not admit, even to himself.

  He had purposely stayed away from her today.

  He’d meant to kiss her, not frighten her to death.

  He swallowed, then took another swig.

  ‘Twas bad enough his entire staff, save for Mary and Tyler, shivered in their shoes at the mere sight of him; now this woman, who through no fault of her own, swooned at his feet…

  Philip stood and replenished his goblet.

  If he hadn’t been too taken in by those tantalizing lips, by the sweet fragrance of her skin—perhaps if he’d had some control of his torrid body he would have seen her apprehension.

  He stared into the gilded looking glass. Eyes glazed from lack of sleep stared back at him.

  When had he become such a monster to those around him? When had he succumbed to the demons in his soul?

  He took another drink.

  Philip threw his goblet. Dark red wine splattered against the looking glass. Glass shattered onto the table and floor.

  He knew when. The day when remorse had turned to anger, by the death of his first child—anger to guilt, because of his second child’s imperfections, and betrayal to hatred; not only at a faceless man and woman long passed from this world, but at himself.

  Of late, thoughts of Rebecca’s infidelity and the consequences of her actions, of the child she birthed so soon after, put tormenting questions in his mind; questions he wished not to dwell upon.

  Rebecca’s child with another man?

  His head throbbed.

  My child? Of course. If ‘twas not for the child’s ailments doubt would follow him throughout every waking moment.

  Yes, his family’s soiled lineage put his fears to rest.

  His grandfather, a cripple with a short leg, spoke with a stutter. One of his uncles was insane. And his father…

  Philip raked his fingers through his hair.

  His parents had tried for many years to have a child. He was born after two stillborns, when his father was an old man.

  Philip stared at the grotesquely distorted image, a reflection of his soul, broken and bitter.

  What kind of monster gave thanks to a child’s ailments for his own peace of mind?

  Philip snatched up a bottle of rum and poured himself another drink, hoping to find absolution in the glass of liquid fire.

  ***

  The door groaned open as Elizabeth turned the knob.

  Her body taut, Elizabeth slowly took a step and found herself in another hallway. At the end of the long narrow hall, illuminated by her flickering light, the silhouette of another door loomed above her and she realized this passageway led to the attic.

  An all-encompassing curiosity, to see what lay behind the closed door, quashed the eerie chill enveloping the dark stairwell.

  Rebecca requires me to see behind that door.

  Elizabeth crept up the stairs.

  I need to see beyond that door, Elizabeth thought, realizing she would get no rest until she entered the attic and put to rest the mystery of Rebecca.

  Her candle held high, her hand gripping her hem above her ankles, she climbed higher.

  The tense silence, like a boiling kettle on the verge of erupting, he
ightened her senses.

  Every creak, groan of wooden plank gnawed at her confidence. Every uneven breath, the erratic beat of her thumping heart, resounded in her ears. But, her determination greater than her fear, she pushed down on the handle. With a click, then a soft groan, the door eased open.

  Warm air wafted against her cheeks.

  Pitch darkness hit her like a swift blow to the knees.

  She raised her candle, peered inside and hesitated.

  Mozart brushed her leg, skirted past and became swallowed up by the darkness.

  Elizabeth followed after him.

  She inhaled sharply and was accosted by the stale, musty smell of a room entombed.

  It took a few moments for her eyes to get accustomed to her surroundings.

  Thinking to shed some light and fresh air into the room, she gingerly crossed the floor, thrust her palm into the center of the rough wooden frame.

  The window burst open.

  A gust of angry wind slapped her face.

  Her candle flickered out.

  Elizabeth stood still, and took a deep breath, gathering her composer.

  When her breathing calmed, and her pulse slowed, she glanced around.

  Moonlight streamed in from the small crude window, illuminating cloth covered objects propped up against the wall.

  Mozart darted out from behind a wooden trunk, flaring her heartbeat; then he rubbed up against the rough surface, perfectly content with his surroundings.

  With silent care, Elizabeth crossed the room, bent down and studied the various covered shapes.

  Surprised no spider-webs or layer of dust covered the canvas, she gently eased off the fabric.

  A gold-framed portrait of Rebecca stared back at her.

  Dressed in an overskirt of dark blue satin that puffed out at her sides, and a light blue underskirt richly embroidered with silver clustered flowers, Rebecca was the picture of elegance; all satin and lace. Tight ringlets of glossy black hair framed her face, tipped the top of her shoulders. Upon her lips, she wore a smile. But, ‘twas her eyes, her dark, vibrant, eyes that captivated Elizabeth’s attention and sent an un-mirthful chill to her heart.

  A sense of sadness and devastating pain, despite what the artist portrayed, filled Elizabeth’s soul.

  One after the other, each uncovered picture of Rebecca on horseback, Rebecca surround by roses in her garden, silhouetted against a bright blue sky; staring at her, speaking to her in unspoken silence caused nausea to coil like a snake in Elizabeth’s stomach.

  Suffering and remorse filled her every pore.

  Staring at the portraits one would never see the anger, the sadness; the hopelessness now felt coursing through Elizabeth’s veins.

  Drained by the battling emotions battling, despite the persistent presence beckoning her to keep looking, Elizabeth sank to the floor in a pool of moonlight with Mozart at her side.

  A woman’s shrill gasp pierced the stillness.

  Elizabeth turned to the doorframe and stared.

  Illuminated by candlelight, her distorted shadow filling the doorway behind her, Tessie stood frozen on the top step.

  Wide-eyed, agape, she pointed a thin finger at her.”The moon…,” she whispered, her voice thin.

  Elizabeth glanced to the floor and seeing nothing, but her silhouette illuminated by the moon’s bright light upon the floorboards, she glanced back to the servant.

  “You draw down the moon,” Tess said horrified. “May providence have mercy on me.”

  Tessie’s words sent a pang of alarm up Elizabeth’s spine.

  She struggled to her feet. “Do not be silly.”

  “Witch.” Tessie spat. “Evil one.” She backed away.

  Elizabeth bolted across the room.

  “Tessie, stop,” she demanded under her breath, afraid the entire household would wake.

  Tessie stopped and raised her hand, putting a barrier between them. “Stay back. Evil be in this house; growing stronger each passing day. Had I known you were the cause--” She turned, and ran down the stairs.

  A swift stab of alarm jabbed beneath Elizabeth’s breast. “Nay. You are mistaken. Tessie!”

  Tessie glanced over her shoulder. “You have unlocked the passageway to hell. Have mercy on us all.”

  ***

  The next day, with nothing but idle time on her hands, Elizabeth sat down at her glass armonica,

  She had gotten very little sleep last night, her thoughts on Rebecca. Anticipation and amazement made it difficult to close her eyes and she had watched the sunrise, anxious to leave her chambers.

  As her fingers hummed over the glasses, her thoughts drifted to Tessie and her misguided words.

  Rumors of witchcraft would now creep up each floor of the house like a fire, causing those within to judge her through ignorance and fear. She knew some still thought that to sleep under direct moonlight, or to sit under it, might make you go mad or blind. Superstitious fools! It never ceased to amaze her that some people still chose to believe or to blame their insecurities on anything or anyone who was different from themselves.

  A movement in the corner of the room caught her attention.

  She leaned over the instrument and peered across the room.

  Peeking out from behind the heavy brocade curtain, a child stared back at her.

  Elizabeth stared, astonished.

  Partially hidden, from what she could see, the little girl, nay ‘twas a boy, had the most beautiful, cherub-looking face. The soft, smooth contouring lines of the child’s cheek seemed almost without texture as though made of porcelain. A tumble of black curls fell to the youth’s forehead. She guessed him to be six years of age.

  Quietly they observed each other, neither one, speaking, neither one moving, each lost in their own thoughts.

  Elizabeth’s mind raced.

  The child looked familiar. Perhaps he was a visitor. His Lordship’s nephew?

  The thought barely crossed her mind before another followed

  Earlier, when she had heard moaning, Mary had said ‘twas Nora having a fit from a toothache. Could it have been the boy? Perhaps he bore one of the servant’s name? And that noise coming from the floor above hers; the sound of a thrashing, tantrum-like pounding. ‘Twasnt the upstairs maid moving furniture, nor her cat running through the halls.

  Elizabeth rubbed the back of her neck.

  Nay. The child had to be a guest. For surely a child’s everyday goings on could be heard throughout the house, even one as big as this one. Besides, she would have caught a glimpse of him before now.

  Slowly reaching behind her, she pushed back her chair and stepped around it.

  “Hello,” she said softly as not to frighten him.

  Gingerly she took a step in the child’s direction.

  He bolted from his hiding place, ran across the room, avoiding her, stopped at the door, turned, glanced back then continued out through the massive wooden doors and into the hall.

  Stunned, Elizabeth remained still. Those eyes… that face… Dear Lord the child had Rebecca’s eyes!

  “Wait.”

  Elizabeth picked up the hem of her gown and hurried after the child. She caught a glimpse of his black hair as he rounded the corner. Then he disappeared up a staircase, she hadn’t known existed.

  Hastily she took to the stairs, tripping over her own feet in an attempt to keep up.

  Her heart pounded. Her breath, uneven, she reached the landing, only to proceed up another set of stairs. When she reached the top, she noticed the child had slowed his pace to a sluggish run.

  Afraid to chase after him, lest she frighten him again, she called out softly. “I won’t hurt you. I only want to--”

  He bolted across the wooden floor and disappeared through an open door.

  She stepped in behind him.

  A neat sparsely decorated boy’s room greeted her. A blue and green oriental carpet adored the floor. Wooden playthings, a horse with a straw mane and a small ball were placed in the corner out of
the way. Yet, despite the presence of the toys, the room felt devoid of life, cold and empty. There were no chairs on which to rock; or tables on which to play, just a dark wood canopied bed in the far corner of the room, away from the window. And not one book.

  Across the room, protruding from the partially closed door of a cupboard, she could see a piece of cloth stuck between the wall and the hinge.

  Calmly, leisurely, she made her way over, placed her hand on the latch and slowly opened the door.

  The child’s dark, almond shaped, eyes stared at her.

  Taken back, by the empty quality to those eyes, her words failed her.

  White knuckled, the child hugged his knees to his chest. He wrapped his arms tightly around him in a woven cocoon of protectiveness.

  Sadness pinched Elizabeth’s heart.

  Slowly, hesitant, afraid any quick action might cause him distress she bent and reached out her hand.

  When he dropped his head into his lap, like a lifeless marionette, then stamped the floor with his feet in uncontrollable fury, an instant’s squeezing hurt gripped her body.

  “Shss. Please. Do not cry. There is no cause for alarm.”

  As soon as her fingers touched his leg, the child recoiled pressing his back farther into the cupboard.

  The stamping continued even stronger than before.

  Elizabeth snapped her hand away. Anguish squeezed her throat, tightened her chest.

  She needed something in which to calm him.

  Think. A toy… yes, perhaps--

  She jerked to her feet—whirled around—and came face to face with Mary’s stocky frame.

  Elizabeth’s body stiffened with surprise.

  “Mercy me! What have ye done?” Mary’s hard clipped tone sliced through her.

  “M--Mary. There’s a boy--”

  “Of course there be a boy. This be his room, where else would he be?” Mary grabbed her arm and pushed her aside. “Master William, child, ‘tis Mary. Come now, Laddie, come to me,” she cooed softly.

  What have I done? What? What could have caused such a reaction? “I just wanted to speak with him.”

  “Child. Come out. She won’t harm ye.” Mary glanced at her. “I be a thinkin’ ye should leave.”

  “But--”

  “Ye’ve frightened the child enough with yer presence. Please.” She pointed to the door.